Dawn Crux
by Hermione Prime
Summary: As Voldemort's traitor apprentice, Harry finally escaped his guardian's torture and into freedom. Picked up by Tom Riddle, he discovers the true meaning of being a Horcrux and the consequences of freeing Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Voldemort's established society is brought crumbling down as the two powerful wizards reunite...and even Harry is unable to stop it. Sequel to Ice Crux.
1. Freedom

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I merely love J.K Rowling's characters.**

**Dawn Crux, sequel to Ice Crux, is finally up! If you haven't read the prequel, I recommend you read it because I'm not sure whether I did a very good job of explaining what happened. Anyway, I do hope you enjoy and that you will give this fic a chance.**

**Summary of Ice Crux: **

**A new regime. A darker era. A stronger generation. The Boy-Who-Lived did not exist. Voldemort attained the final victory, and thus, gained limitless power. As a feared authoritarian figure, he rules both the wizarding world and Hogwarts in the shadows, killing without restriction. Anyone declared to be treacherous is condemned to death. When a talented Harry Potter, brimming with impressive potential, arrives at Hogwarts, he attracts the unwanted attention of the Dark Lord. Following a magnificent duel, Harry is blackmailed into becoming Lord Voldemort's apprentice. Forced to confront his fate, Harry attempts to tread the dangerous waters of a Pureblood hierarchy. A tale weaved around jealousy, fate, victory, hatred, love, angst, and above all, ambition.**

**Summary of Dawn Crux:**

**As Voldemort's traitor apprentice, Harry finally escaped his guardian's torture and into freedom. Picked up by Tom Riddle, he discovers the true meaning of being a Horcrux and the consequences of freeing Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Voldemort's established society is brought crumbling down as the two powerful wizards reunite...and even Harry is unable to stop it. Sequel to Ice Crux.**

* * *

Ice Crux

Little rays of sunshine trickled through the charmingly sparkling windows and into the room, chasing the last of the dimness away.

Tucked securely into a corner of the room was a simple bed, on which lay a curled form draped warmly in clean white sheets. For the first time in eight hours, the figure stirred, roused from his slumber.

The very second Harry Potter's eyelids fluttered open, he wished they hadn't; groundswells of excruciating pain surged up his body, his ankle in particular. A moan of distress escaped from his throat. The throbbing in his head turned into heavy pounding as the memories came flooding back.

Voldemort. Lord Voldemort, his past guardian and mentor, had nearly tortured him into insanity. Perhaps it had been inevitable; perhaps it had all been heading straight towards that conclusion from the very start, given that Harry was bound to trap himself in a tight corner sooner or later.

Three years ago, Voldemort had attained ultimate victory and vanquished Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, ruling both the British nation and Hogwarts School in the shadows while appointing the Inner Circle Death Eaters the topmost stations in the Ministry; securing Lucius Malfoy as the Minister for Magic.

They became the pillars of wizarding society, establishing a darker era and breeding a stronger generation. New, harsher laws were launched and anyone declared to be treacherous was condemned to death.

Nearly one year ago, Harry Potter, an eleven year old child who had grown up under the Dursleys and wholly unaware of magic, was taken by Professor Snape to Hogwarts to face Voldemort's new regime.

The school had been infested with crawling Death Eaters under the undeserved titles of professors, Dark Arts had been mandatory, 'punishment' had been another word for Cruciatus Curses, and to make things worse, Harry had been sorted into the unwelcoming snake lair.

He soon learnt from Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall that his parents, despite being magical, had been murdered by Lord Voldemort… as well as the long, twisted history regarding his dad, James Potter. After personally witnessing the torture and death of Ollivander at the Dark Lord's hands, the new information only served to fuel his hatred towards the powerful wizard.

Life in Slytherin and under the tight restrictions of Headmistress Carrow hadn't been easy… but at least he didn't have the Dark Lord himself to deal with, at the time. However, his aptitude towards magic coupled with his tendency to make an impression – whether good or bad – caused him to wander into the eyes of Professor Snape.

Unknown to Harry at the time, Snape and Bellatrix had been given strict orders by Voldemort at the beginning of the year to seek out potential candidates for the status as the Dark Lord's apprentice. When Snape offered him private duelling lessons, Harry jumped at the rare opportunity, entirely unaware of the professor's intricate schemes.

After six months of private tutelage, Snape had deemed Harry ready for an upcoming duelling competition, which was to be held in the Great Hall with the entire school, including Voldemort himself, watching.

The duelling system wasn't fair; trapping the first year competitors at a severe disadvantage. Shockingly, Harry managed to fight his way through the first years, second year, third year _and _fourth year; finally suffering a shameful defeat when confronting the ice queen of Slytherin, Daphne Greengrass, who eventually became the victor. Regardless of his failure to claim final victory, Harry once again captured the interest of Lord Voldemort and, to his annoyance, found himself under tight scrutiny.

During the closing of the duelling competitions, Daphne Greengrass was announced to be the official apprentice of the Dark Lord. But unexpectedly, in the following week, Harry was invited into Voldemort's office, where he was submitted to an outrageous proposal of apprenticeship.  
Naturally, he refused, with as much politeness as he could possibly summon, unfortunately, one could not simply say 'no' to Lord Voldemort and get away without consequence. Voldemort presented Harry with a string of blackmails, threatening him with the prospect of his death and the death of his friends.

That was how Harry found himself removed from Hogwarts and living in a manor and studying under Voldemort's iron hand. As reluctant as he was to admit it, the Dark Lord's harsh teaching styles worked wonders, allowing him to perform in his full potential.

It seemed Voldemort wished the best of teachers for his apprentices; for he organised for Snape and Bellatrix to be temporarily separated from Hogwarts in order to provide the top tutors for Harry and Daphne.

During Harry's first night at the manor, Voldemort brought down a series of events that changed Harry's life forever… by killing the Dursleys after forcing them to sign a paper locking a transfer of custody, thus gaining guardianship as well as apprenticeship over Harry.

Harry would be lying if he said he had not been swayed by the carefully weaved explanations on the nonexistence of darkness and light… Voldemort's manners influenced him, resulting in Harry willingly flinging about dark curses… however, it had not changed Harry's true nature.

During his time with Voldemort, Harry had acquainted himself with a youthful portrait in his bedroom who introduced himself as Tom Riddle. With Tom Riddle being the closest thing to a friend Harry had, he eventually came to see the sixteen year old as one.

The older Slytherin was arrogant but ingenious, apparently having achieved standards in magic Harry had never imagined for himself.

With Riddle's witty sarcasm and charisma, Harry was soon drawn in, informing the portrait of many of his personal problems and in return, Tom Riddle told Harry his hatred of Lord Voldemort.

Never being one to let down his friends, Harry gladly lent Tom Riddle a few drops of his blood when he was asked. "In all honesty, the Dark Lord cold-bloodedly entombed me here for decades, subjecting me to a life of compliance and servitude. I can feast my eyes on the world through my many frames, but never sense or touch anything. If you were me, Harry, would you not want the chance of freedom?" Riddle had said, stressing that a few drops of blood would free him entirely from his frame.

From then on, Tom had been able to wander free as he wished, but he had always made certain to return to his portrait, as to avoid suspicion from the Dark Lord.

It wasn't until the night of Harry's initiation that he found out he spoke Parseltongue, a piece of news that completely caught Voldemort off guard. But even that piece of news hadn't saved Harry when the next morning came.

At first, everything had progressed as usual; Harry and Daphne had made the Animagus Revelare Draft, a drink that would allow them to obtain their Animagus forms for a certain period of time, with Professor Snape, and nothing had been out of place. He had stored the completed potion in his robe pocket after casting a protection charm over it.

Later in the day, however, he learnt from Tom Riddle that Professor McGonagall had been arrested for treason, and that was where everything spirited downhill…

He had been beside himself, getting more frantic each minute as Tom listed the possible things that could happen to the Gryffindor Head. After a lengthy persuasion, Riddle finally agreed to apparate Harry to Nurmengard, where McGonagall was evidently imprisoned.

The rescue mission progressed smoothly. And Harry also managed to set free two additional prisoners; the first was Albus Dumbledore – who had supposedly been killed by Lord Voldemort – and second was Grindelwald.

Through the years in Nurmengard prison and through the sheer, engulfing frustration Dumbledore experienced, the friendship between Grindelwald and Dumbledore had been reignited. And Harry had freed both of them, with Tom Riddle's assistance.

Knowing the Dark Lord would not suspect his involvement due to his obvious inability to apparate not to mention breaking through Voldemort's own wards, Harry allowed Tom to apparate both of them back to the manor… where Tom melted unnoticed into his portrait and Harry was greeted by the brunt of his guardian's wrath.

"Coming back was not your cleverest idea, Harry," Voldemort had hissed. "But then…you did not know your actions will be found." Found. Discovered. Exposed. And by Daphne Greengrass, no less.

"I won, and I imprisoned Dumbledore in Nurmengard as a trophy, a constant reminder of the completion of my ambitions…" There had been a deadly silence. "However, I have only enjoyed three years of triumph; even you must know how painful it is for the work you dedicated your entire life to to be ruined all in one hour by a disobedient little boy."

"You have unknowingly destroyed everything I had attained. I offered you success and a place by my side as an apprentice, and this is how you rewarded me. What do you think, Harry, I will do to you? I only wish to be compensated for my loss, but it seems that the request is beyond your abilities. All that is left for me to do is to repay you."

Voldemort had promised, "In a single syllable, your skin will feel like it is being feasted upon by a thousand wasps, stabbed by countless knives, stripped from your flesh, burned by an endless fire. You will writhe on the ground, howling for forgiveness, but you will receive none. The Dark Lord does not forgive nor forget."

And that was what Harry got. He, having never faced any penances dealt by Voldemort before, realised that no pain he ever experienced before matched what the Dark Lord doled out. Snape, despite all his sarcasm, had made an attempt to lessen Harry's punishment; "Regardless of the happenings, Potter is useful to some extent –" to which Voldemort ignored.

As the end of the torture session neared, Harry could not find the energy within him to even crawl on to his knees. But he had been conscious enough for the last bullets of emotional pain. In an effort to discover how Harry had managed to free Dumbledore, Voldemort had cast Legilimency on him… and had immediately found out about Tom Riddle.

If it was even possible, Voldemort's anger had shot further up the scale when he realised Riddle's freedom.  
"Riddle, Tom Riddle," the Dark Lord had snarled. "I may as well have guessed. The little…" He whirled to face Harry. "You have been tricked. Foolish boy, you do not even know your little friend's true identity. I will give you a clue: the last name of my father was Riddle."

Coldness had gripped Harry's heart. Riddle. This couldn't be possible. "He is related to you," Harry had whispered.

A chilling smile had snaked across Voldemort's lips. "Tom Riddle was my past and my present. Not only do we share the same blood, but we are one. I _am_ Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he is me. Do you not understand how he can break down the wards that even the great Albus Dumbledore cannot? Do you not know how he managed to deceive the wards around this manor? Only_ I_ know how to control these wards."

It was horrifying how effortlessly the truth could shatter someone. Even through the haze of pain, the truth glimmered very clearly to Harry. He had been used by Tom Riddle, a monster he had considered a _friend_, in a plot aimed to overthrow Lord Voldemort through the release of both Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

The only thing that appeared to puzzle Voldemort was how Harry's blood had managed to free his past self when in theory, only his blood had the capacity.

Bearing several broken ribs, bleeding wounds, a broken ankle, and misery, Harry was carried by Professor Snape into the dungeons where he was settled for the night. It seemed Voldemort was planning on experimenting with him in the morning – determined to learn the secrets behind Harry's blood and Parseltongue. Harry knew he would be killed if he survived the experiment.

In the dungeons alone with freezing blasts of wind from the tiny window, Harry had chanced upon a miracle, after finding the flask of Animagus Revelare Draft. He had drunk it in hopes that his Animagus would form would be small enough to allow him to escape through the window. It had worked.

He had no idea whether he was an eagle, a hawk, a falcon, a kite, a vulture or something entirely different; all he knew was that he had to squeeze through the little window and obtain his freedom. Stretching his wings, Harry had realised with horror that his left wing drenched in blood. It appeared the injuries remained with him even when he had transformed into a bird.

Praying the damage wasn't heavy enough to influence his flight, Harry had successfully hovered with a few flaps. His balance hadn't been exceedingly bad, even with the left wing dangling slightly. Cramming himself into the gap of the window was harder, and for a moment, Harry had feared he was stuck; trapped between freedom and the prison. But with one violent twist, he was free. He was free.

The wards had proved to be little of a challenge, not recognising Animagus from an ordinary bird. Nonetheless, with a body painted in heavy injuries, Harry tired quickly. He barely managed to make it into a secluded forest before his wing gave way and he collided head-first with the ground.

And the next thing Harry knew, he was here, recalling what had happened to him. He was rather comfortable, he supposed, compared to the agony of the night before.  
Regrettably, all sane thoughts were wiped clean from his mind when the bedroom door opened…  
To reveal Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Ignoring the stabs of pain, Harry pulled himself abruptly from the lying position into a sitting one. "Tom – Voldemort!" he hissed, readying himself for a duel.

Tom maintained his cool composure, drawling lazily, "You do not appear to have your wand on you, but if for some reason I am wrong, please allow me to set down your potions first before you lunge at me; they have taken a rather lengthy period to brew."

"Poisons, you mean," Harry sneered, glaring fiercely at the older Slytherin.

"Tell me, Harry, why would I poison you when I went through the trouble of saving your delicate, little life?" Tom said lightly. "Lie down before your ribs split again. I assure you I do not wish to go through the long and bothersome process of mending them for a second time."

Harry continued to glower defiantly at Tom, ignoring his comment about lying down. "You two-faced, silver-tongued creep."

Tom tutted disapprovingly. "I'm not sure that is a polite way to address your saviour; I revived you, although perhaps I ought to have left you to die as Lord Voldemort did."

"You _are _Voldemort, you cur!" Harry growled. "I'll kill you."

"I'd like to see you try," Tom answered stonily. "However, I am not truly Lord Voldemort; just as he is not truly me… thus you cannot fault me for his actions."

"You should've let me die. I'd _rather_ have died than seen your face," Harry spat.

"And yet you once called me handsome."

"You act like your arrogance is a virtue. Maybe if you tried eating your own face you could be beautiful on the inside too," he retorted.

"Somehow," Tom began slowly, "I do not see you talking to Lord Voldemort so rudely. Do try and remember we share more or less the same soul."

"Let me go," Harry said. "You've no right to keep me here."

"If you feel that you are strong enough to make it out of this house, then by all means, try."

"Fine!" Harry snapped acidly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned onto the post for support, closing his eyes to the hurt that erupted in his ankle. Remarkably, his legs were steady enough to hold most of his weight.

Driven by a new determination to prove himself, Harry limped past Tom and across the room, stopping to hang on to the door knob and to catch his breath.

_"Enough!"_ Tom finally said sharply. "You will stay whether you like it or not, even if I have to bind you to the bed."

Harry grasped the door knob firmly and pulled as hard as he could, but to his frustration, it remained close. "Blasted door!"

"When your stupidity outmatches another's by a mile, the cleverest thing to do would be to listen to them," Tom said. "_Wingardium Levisosa_."

As soon as Harry was dumped unceremoniously back on the bed, invisible ropes tightened around his middle, strapping him to the furniture.

Tom snapped his fingers and a potion flew into his hands. "You will either drink this voluntarily or I will pour it down your throat. I am sure you can figure for yourself which one will be more unpleasant."

Harry pursed his lips tightly, and raised his eyebrows boldly. No way was he ever going to obey Tom like a sick puppy.

"I suppose you choose the latter," Tom remarked in an indifferent tone. "All the more fun for me." His cold fingers gripped Harry's chin powerfully and prised his jaws forcefully open in a none-too-gentle hold while he used his other hand to uncork the potion and empty the whole dose in Harry's mouth.

Eyes stinging, Harry spluttered and choked on the liquid. _"You!"_ he gasped. "You can't treat me like some animal!" The foul, acrid taste was still clinging on his tongue.

"Ready for the next potion?" Tom asked, reaching for Harry's jaws again.

"I'll drink it myself!" Harry said hastily. "But you have to tell me what it is."

"The first potion you drank was a simple Calming Draught," Tom said. "This one is a darker version of Skele-Gro; harder to brew, less pain for the drinker and regrows the bones in a notably faster time."

When Harry had hesitantly downed the second potion, Tom instantly produced three other bottles. "Pain Relief Potion, Essence of Dittany and Strengthening Solution."

Harry made a protesting sound at the back of his throat. "This can't possibly be healthy, drinking so many various potions at once."

"Oh, I won't harm you, Harry," Tom drawled mockingly. "Not when we are_ such_ good friends."

"Who left me at Voldemort's mercy if not you?" Harry demanded. "You slinked back to your precious portrait and waited for a chance to escape."

"Drink your potions, Harry," Tom said dismissively, "and we will talk about this over breakfast."

**...**

Somehow, a part of Harry was gratified to see the breakfast tray being carried to the bed where he could slump back against the soft pillows and savour the splendid tastes. There were so many delicious dishes on the tray: bacon, eggs, waffles, cinnamon rolls and strawberry tarts.

To his displeasure, Tom placed a giant bowl of grey, gooey porridge in front of him and smirked. "Your stomach cannot properly digest normal food yet."

Harry stared as Tom sat down on the other side of the bed with the laden tray and breakfasted on a strawberry tart. He was suddenly reminded of Voldemort. "I'm not eating this," he said.

Tom raised a sardonic eyebrow. "It seems that the luxurious life with the Dark Lord has refined your tastes, however, I will not provide you anything else. You will either eat or starve."

Gloomily, Harry picked up the spoon swirled the gruel with it. It looked disgusting, like something a pig would eat. It chased the last of his appetite away.

"You seem to require encouragement," Tom observed. "I suppose you are curious about how Voldemort and I, being the same person, can exist at the same time." Harry's ears perked up at the words. "Eat your porridge and I will tell you."

Harry looked down at the sickening slop in aversion, but a hunger for information drove him to swallow his first mouthful. It didn't taste as awful as he thought it would.

"Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?" Tom said. "It is the darkest of the Dark Arts, born from magic so dangerous that many dark wizards never dared to touch it, so exotic that few have heard of it. It is made through the darkest of all acts – murder." Eyes widening comically, Harry forgot to continue eating.

"Horcruxes, a magical item created through the murder of another human, can ensure one's immortality. They are immune to all spells but one and almost all matters. If a Horcrux is destroyed, its owner would be no different from other mortals, and Lord Voldemort wished to avoid that," Tom said. "He made six. Or so he thought. There was a seventh Horcrux, made purely by accident, a seventh Horcrux he is still unaware of."

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"We will get to that later," Tom said dispassionately. "If you put two and two together, you will realise I am one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"The portrait!" Harry exclaimed.

"Clever boy. However, I am not a mere Horcrux anymore, or rather, I changed shape; from a portrait into a live being. With my own body, I am no longer his to control, no longer his to command, but because I contain a shard of his soul he cannot destroy me unless he wishes to destroy a piece of himself."

"You are immune from Voldemort," Harry said.

"I am. I also share the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, making me immortal from all but those that may destroy a Horcrux," Tom said. "It is complicated; a Horcrux sharing Horcruxes, but you do not need to understand."

"That's disgusting," Harry said. "You were created through murder."

"Do try and remember you are calling a human being 'disgusting'," Tom said, dryly.

"I think the word disgusting justifies the Horcrux containing Voldemort's soul perfectly," Harry hissed spitefully. "No wonder you are so similar to Voldemort."

"I am not an ordinary Horcrux; call me an advantageous combination between Horcrux and human if you wish. I can be destroyed through the same means as a Horcrux, but while objects are defenceless, I can effortlessly hold my own. I am also protected from the illnesses and ways that may kill a human, as long as Lord Voldemort's other Horcruxes are safe," Tom said.

"It's revolting. Do you know which innocent's death brought about your existence?" Harry said. "Creatures like you shouldn't even be allowed to live."

"Ouch. How hurtful can you be, Harry?" Tom asked evenly. "But that_ is_ rather a hypocritical comment, seeing as you are a Horcrux yourself."

Harry stopped dead, feeling goosebumps popping up his arms. He waited for the smug look to cross Tom's face as he told Harry how foolish he was to believe such a thing… but nothing of the sort reassured Harry.

"Surprised?" Tom smirked. "_You_ are Lord Voldemort's seventh and final Horcrux, Harry; you have a piece of his soul inside you. Tell me exactly how appalling you find yourself."

Opening his dry mouth in search of suitable words, Harry found himself stunned into speechlessness. He was the result of a murder, he was a tool that kept Voldemort immortal, he was a spawn of the darkest magic; he was a _Horcrux_.

"Only the Dark Lord's blood has the capacity to free me from the portrait. Why do you think a few drops of your blood managed to achieve only what Lord Voldemort's could? Why do you think you were able to speak Parseltongue?"

"Whose- _whose _death?" Harry rasped softly.

"That is something you have no need to know," Tom said.

_"Tell me! Whose death?"_

"Do not say I did not warn you," Tom responded. "It was the death of Lily Evans, the death of your mother, which transformed you from a normal child into Voldemort's Horcrux."

"I'm the reason she died," Harry said quietly. "She died because of me."

"A touching conclusion, but she did not die because of you… Rather you became a Horcrux because of her."  
Tom's eyes hardened as if daring Harry to argue. "It was purely an accident. The Dark Lord's soul, tattered from being split on so many accounts, let loose a small portion when he killed Lily Evans. Unknown to him, it attached itself to you, Harry Potter who were merely an infant at the time."

"How come you know when Voldemort himself didn't?" Harry breathed. It felt as though his whole world had collapsed upon him and caved him in.

"Horcruxes are sensitive towards the arrival of a new… brother or sister," Tom explained. "It comes to them as a tingling and then as excruciating agony. Being a portrait, I attained my human intelligence and was able to recognise the true cause of the sensation."

He smiled smugly. "Over close contact with you, the Dark Lord should have sensed a connection, a pull of magic. Luckily for us, the distance between the two of you, the lack of interaction between the two of you ensued that the mind link dulled enough to deceive him. You did not inherit Lord Voldemort's qualities until you had spent the majority of your time within a few metres to him."

"What do you mean?"

"The contact of you blood with me combined with the close contact with the Dark Lord awoke some of the connection. You began to speak Parseltongue," Tom said eerily. "More of the connection is waking; Harry, and soon your mind link will be at Lord Voldemort's disposal. You can only pray that he remains ignorant of it."

"Why? Why does a mind link matter so much?"

"The first reason being that a mind link provides an easy invasion of your mind; Voldemort will access it more smoothly than using Legilimency. The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing..."

"You mean that if he knows about it, then he'll be able to read my mind?"

"More than that," Tom said grimly. "Read it, control it, unhinge it. In the past it was often the Dark Lord's pleasure to invade the minds of his victims, creating visions designed to torture them into madness. Only after extracting the last exquisite ounce of agony, only when he had them literally begging for death would he finally –"

"Anything else?" Harry interrupted, not eager to hear the rest of the sentence.

"The second reason being that if he discovers a mind link, he will eventually draw the conclusion that you are a Horcrux. After that, the colony of Death Eaters will be hunting for you."

Harry shuddered. "There must be a way to prevent him from entering."

"There is always a way. My mind is fully protected from an assault by the Dark Lord," Tom said. "Occlumency."

—0O0—

Inside the great meeting room, the atmosphere was tense. Every cautious breath inhaled was an indication of bleakness.

Over fifty figures in black robes were kneeled on the floor, crafting an image of a dark sea. Fifty powerful Death Eaters, all of them members of the Inner Circle and each with an entire legion of lower-ranked followers to command, were pressed against the floor in a display of united obedience.

At the very front of the room, Dark Lord Voldemort stood forebodingly with his wand twirling between his pale fingers. His face was a blank mask, not betraying his true feelings or allowing even a droplet of emotion to leak past. "Rise, Lucius."

A figure close to the front reluctantly got up from his knees. Locks of platinum blonde hair fell out from under his hood. "My Lord…" he began oily, but the effect was ruined by the tinges of apprehension in his voice, "my Lord, Dumbledore has not yet been recovered… However, I have confidence that he soon will be. The old man is nothing against your power –"

"Can you _promise _me you will capture Dumbledore, Lucius? After all, you are only repeating what you said last time. I once told you; time is one luxury I do not have, and yet I have given you time. Ten hours have passed and Dumbledore along with Grindelwald and McGonagall are all still roaming free!"

Lucius cringed. "I… I cannot make promises, my Lord. Your Death Eaters are trying their best –"

"Their _best_ is not enough," Voldemort hissed softly. "If I do not hear of anything regarding Dumbledore's whereabouts, you will be held responsible. Take that into consideration when you return to your search, Lucius."

The Dark Lord scanned the Inner Circle with disgust. "I confess myself disappointed by the lack of competence on your part. Dumbledore's continued existence combined with Grindelwald's means the continuance of my trouble. With the exception of a selected few, you fools have all been put on Dumbledore's trail…and yet you bring me nothing but bad news."

"Those of you who never fail to fail me will see the last days of their pathetic lives should they continue to fail me. Many of you present underestimate the power of Dumbledore and Grindelwald united. Against the odds, they have reunified – and if they are not stopped, our hard work will be erased. Bellatrix, come forward."

The sinister shape of the loyal female Death Eater moved lithely towards the Dark Lord and she came to a stop at a respectful distance, observing her master in a manner of adoration from under her hooded eyes.

"Have you brought any news of success, Bellatrix?"

"Yes, my Lord. Your orders have all been completed. The Ministry Death Eaters have added the finishing touches to ensue that news of Dumbledore's insincere death, and the recent escape will not seep into the wizarding society for the time being," she assured.

"Very good. Once the people hear of Dumbledore's return, the pillars of the wizarding world will crumple. It must not happen. I will punish those of you who have dissatisfied me accordingly after this meeting."

In a matter of seconds, the Dark Lord had swept out of the room with the intention of visiting Harry Potter. The secrets behind the brat's Parseltongue ability had to be investigated. The little traitor had to be kept alive for the time being.

As Lord Voldemort strode into the dungeons with a thick aura of dark magic behind him, he approached the cell which held Potter.

To his disbelief, the cell was empty of all by a pool of dried blood. Harry Potter had escaped. Voldemort's uncontrollable wrath lashed out at the roof and brought a part of it crumbling down. It whipped out of the room with unmatchable ferocity and shook the entire manor.

Before long, every Death Eater had been alerted that something had gone terribly wrong.

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**I welcome constructive criticism as well as positive feedback! Stay tuned for the next chapter (which will be much more exciting).**


	2. Falsehood

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognise. **

**(A/N) I apologise to my old readers about the lengthy summary of my first chapter - I realise it was dreadfully boring and entirely unfair to you who did not require the recap and who had, in the end, got to read very few worthwhile paragraphs...but I do hope you can understand that it wasn't much of a recap as it was an introduction to the newer readers. As a sincere apology, I updated a particularly long chapter this time, and I do hope it is as exciting as I promised.**

**I'd really appreciate it if some of you can tell me what your favourite line was. Cheers!**

* * *

_In a matter of seconds, the Dark Lord had swept out of the room with the intention of visiting Harry Potter. The secrets behind the brat's Parseltongue ability had to be investigated. The little traitor had to be kept alive for the time being._

_As Lord Voldemort strode into the dungeons with a thick aura of dark magic behind him, he approached the cell which held Potter._

_To his disbelief, the cell was empty of all but a pool of dried blood. Harry Potter had escaped. Voldemort's uncontrollable wrath lashed out at the roof and brought a part of it crumbling down. It whipped out of the room with unmatchable ferocity and shook the entire manor._

_Before long, every Death Eater had been alerted that something had gone terribly wrong._

* * *

"My Lord?" Bellatrix daringly spoke up, her eyes glistening from behind her black curls. "Did something happen?"

Lord Voldemort twisted around, his pale skin whiter than ever in the dim light, and murmured coldly, "Our favourite traitor, Harry, has decided upon himself to escape."

The effect his words had on the Inner Circle was remarkable; Wormtail began trembling out of nervousness, his round body shaking like a leaf and McNair's face turned into a strange, puke-coloured shade.

Lucius Malfoy's hand tightened fretfully around the silver handle of his beloved cane, blanching into a colour that matched his long hair. "Surely not, my Lord? Potter had no means, no assets, no energy. Even if he managed such a deed, we will easily ensnare him," he reassured.

"My Lord, if I may speak," Snape carefully added, "it is nothing short of improbable that Potter had the capacity to leave – he suffered an immense loss of blood and extreme exhaustion, not to mention several broken ribs. He did not even possess the strength to stand."

"I repeat: Harry Potter has escaped," Voldemort said dangerously. "Those of you who question my conclusion, feel free to see for yourself."

Expectedly, no one went. Those who had reservations about the matter knew very well to keep their mouths shut in front of their master.

"Has _no_ one thought to check on Harry last night?" Voldemort hissed, drawing the words out deliberately. "Has _no _one put their heads to good use? I cannot help but wonder why you fools need them at all. Tell me…are you always idiots or is it just when I am around?"

The Dark Lord's eyes were blazing with black flames, smothering all other emotions and leaving on one behind: fury. Terrifying fury. Like a firestorm, it flooded the room and drowned everything beneath it.

Voldemort made a quick, subtle gesture at a window. The entire row of glass exploded into a billion sharp fragments, showering down upon them. At the last moment, the Dark Lord clicked his fingers, and the glass vanished and the windows were restored.

His Death Eaters were all completely silent. They knew better than to speak before they were spoken to.

"McNair? Rowle? Yaxley?" Voldemort said. "All of you were here, at the manor, last night. Travers, Scabior, Wormtail, Mulciber, Nott? How about you, _Severus_? Correct me if I am wrong, Severus, but I see no reason why you did not check on Harry."

"You are right, my Lord," Snape said stiffly, "I was available last night. It was purely on my own negligence that Potter escaped. Forgive me, it will not happen again."

"That is correct, Severus," Voldemort murmured, "it will unquestionably_ not_ occur again, or you shall pay with more than just pain."

"Thank you, my Lord, for your leniency." Snape's face betrayed nothing of relief, fright or even gratitude; it was void of all emotions.

"Nott, you revel in your Inner Circle position, you boast of serving me well…yet where is your sense of duty when I require it?" the Dark Lord asked suddenly. "Why did you not check on Harry last night?"

"My Lord…" Nott began, stuttering over his words, "I was busy. I was going to visit Potter, but the news of Dumbledore's continued disappearance took up my attention."

"Liar!" Voldemort snarled. "You need to tame your senseless tongue, Nott. I will not tolerate your deceits and excuses."

"Sorry, my Lord, so sorry," Nott pleaded, disgustingly. To his immense relief, the Dark Lord turned away to question another Death Eater.

"Rowle, what excuses will you make up for yourself?"

"I have no excuses, my Lord."

"And you, Yaxley?"

"Only that I ought to have paid more attention. Forgive me, my Lord."

"Wormtail?" Voldemort sneered.

"I…I was busy too…trying to figure out where Dumbledore had gone so I could help Malfoy... Please…" Wormtail pathetically ended his explanation in a half-whine.

"Cowards who forget their place never fail to earn themselves punishments," Voldemort commented harshly. "Lucius, have you yet received any assistance from Wormtail?"

"No, my Lord."

"Do you hear him, Wormtail?" Voldemort said. "I thought you would have learned something from Nott's falsehoods, but alas, I was wrong."

"My Lord, I was doing it in private, my Lord! I was going to give anything I concluded to Malfoy, please, my Lord –!" Wormtail whimpered, looking as if he would wet himself any minute. "Please, I beg you…"

Ignoring the grovelling, Voldemort turned to face his followers again. "Although there will be a handsome reward should any of you fetch Harry back _alive_, I will be very unhappy should any of you neglect our main concern. Bring me _Dumbledore._"

The Dark Lord slowly raised his wand. "May this be a lesson to all of you." A faint hiss, and a few wizards at the front flinched involuntarily as magic abruptly left the yew wand. The curse was directed straight at Wormtail.

Looks of respite broke across the faces of many followers as Wormtail became the sole victim whom Voldemort vented his anger upon. The Inner Circle bowed low as the screaming began.

—0O0—

"Tom," Harry said, shoving a strawberry tart into his mouth, "what's the special occasion?"

It had been three weeks since Harry escaped from the manor and, he was glad to say, his 'digesting system' – as Tom so delicately put it – had made a full recovery and was now able to eat whatever he wanted.

At the breakfast table, Tom looked up from the Daily Prophet. "Whatever makes you think today is special?" He took a careful sip of coffee.

"Aside from the bright look in your eyes, which is actually caused by your drink," Harry said, "you look unusually smug." He could never understand why the older Slytherin took to drinking coffee; he himself had found the bitter aftertaste extremely hard to adapt.

"Nice observation skills," Tom said smoothly, sarcastically. "Though you may be right for once, in some ways."

It was always like this when Harry talked with Tom; he was bombarded with biting sarcasm and tributes wrapped in irritating insults.

"If you actually took the time to read the newspaper, I would not be wasting my time explaining something so simple to you. News of Dumbledore's return has finally reached the ears of the wizarding world." Tom flipped the newspaper over and shoved it underneath Harry's nose.

On the front page, a picture of Dumbledore dressed in azure robes peeked out at him with a sparkling smile. The headline, written in bold, black letterings, was pasted across the very top: **Dumbledore Returns – Resisting**.

Harry gaped. "What?" he gasped. "I thought –"

"Voldemort _has_ done all in his power to keep it a secret. In fact, I am amazed the information took as long as it did to get out," Tom said idly. "Predictably, such a thing cannot be concealed forever. Believe me, Harry, the response from the wizarding world will be more intense than anything you've seen before."

Swallowing, Harry's eyes scanned down the page, absorbing the information. _"The true cause of former Headmaster Dumbledore's return remains unknown, however, we know one thing for certain: Albus Dumbledore never died. Rumour has it that he had been imprisoned in Nurmengard, in the very the cells that caged his childhood friend and past Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald. _

_Shockingly, yesterday the pair had been discovered together with no noticeable signs of hostility towards each other, although it is well known the two wizards do not see eye to eye."_

"What does it mean by 'past Dark Lord'?" Harry asked, with his eyes strained on the three words describing Grindelwald.

"Oh yes, how can I forget? You have no knowledge whatsoever of wizarding history," Tom said complacently. "Grindelwald, the man you saw, was not only a Dark Lord but one considered to be one of the most powerful of all time, second only to Voldemort."

"But he's Dumbledore's friend!" Harry protested, looking stunned. "And Dumbledore is a good –"

"Believe what you want, but good and evil do not exist; Dumbledore is not the essence of purity," Tom said. "During Grindelwald's reign of terror from 1939 to 1945, Grindelwald became notorious for achieving 'the greater _good_'. In 1945, the same year which Hitler fell, due to the cries of the public, Dumbledore confronted his past friend in a legendary duel and defeated him."

"If they became enemies," Harry said, "then why was Dumbledore so…_pleasant_ towards Grindelwald?"

"Through the harsh times at Voldemort's mercy, Dumbledore could not resist the inner pull of their forgotten friendship. They renewed their alliance."

Harry turned back to inspect the Daily Prophet. _"It is suspected they have strengthened their friendship ties and will now work together against recapture by Lord Voldemort. _

_'The years in prison have rattled Dumbledore's mind. The sane Dumbledore would never have joined Grindelwald,' an elderly lady witch commented, while another sobbed to our reporters, 'I am deliriously happy Dumbledore's alive, but I cannot believe he has…I can't…you know, it's Grindelwald.' It goes to show how opinions can vary when a middle aged wizard, who refused to be named, stated that 'Dumbledore knew what he was doing with Grindelwald' and that 'together, they will overthrow Voldemort.'_

_No one knows about 'overthrowing' the Dark Lord when he is not the Minister, but our Minister Lucius Malfoy_ has_ spoken yesterday afternoon. 'The reappearance of Albus Dumbledore is not an advancement in our society but a drawback,' he said. 'Years ago, the Dark Lord spared Dumbledore out of mercy; a wrong decision perhaps, considering the havoc already caused. This is no big matter and will soon be dealt with; it will be a good idea to concentrate on your respective jobs and let the Ministry do its duty.' _

_The Dark Lord, one of our most influential figures today, is thought to be furious at Dumbledore's escapade. Doubtlessly, the Ministry will be doing its best to aid Lord Voldemort in recapturing the old Headmaster, but whether they can is another problem altogether, because Albus Dumbledore along with Gellert Grindelwald and his trusted Professor Minerva McGonagall are safe in the sanctuary of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_Despite not anticipating Dumbledore to aim for the magical school, Lord Voldemort had previously cast strong wards on all important places. However, with the Light Lord and the past Dark Lord's magic combined, the wards had not been enough to stop them. _

_Within a half an hour yesterday, they had seized the school without any injuries to any of the students. The staff, on the other hand, was a different matter. According to a student's recount, after subduing current Headmistress Carrow, Dumbledore had attempted to talk Grindelwald out of taking the witch's life. Being a persuasive man himself, Grindelwald eventually was left to act out his verdict. Although this malicious deed had been displayed in front of very few students, the mere story had shocked many.  
Minister Malfoy explains that Lord Voldemort fears for the safety of the children. _

_Dumbledore and Grindelwald had allowed those students who wished to leave to leave and had sealed the ancient castle from the inside with powerful wards even Lord Voldemort probably would not penetrate anytime soon. _

_This sudden, astonishing news of Dumbledore's return had dazed the entire wizarding world, especially since he had been believed to be dead. It is predicted that the beginning stirrings of the public will evolve into blatant supporting of either Albus Dumbledore or Dark Lord Voldemort._

_More will be written on this subject tomorrow._

- _Daily Prophet." _

"This is incredible," Harry breathed, "they've acted so fast."

"I agree," Tom said lightly. "They are a couple steps ahead of Voldemort, and even the Daily Prophet knows it. Although they have not painted the Dark Lord in _bad_ light, Dumbledore has been described in a comparatively _better_ light. However, the neutrality will only last momentarily; soon the newspapers will take sides."

"Can't Voldemort stop them, the media, I mean?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes, but he won't. If he applies brute force, his popularity will decrease even lower in the public eye."

"Who do you think…? Do you think Dumbledore will…_win_?"

"It depends," Tom said coolly, "on how fast he gains supporters. If the citizens of Great Britain are courageous enough to support their leader as they once have done, then the tides will turn in Dumbledore's favour."

"The majority of wizards under Voldemort's rule hate him, don't they?" Harry said. "They only follow him out of fear."

"If even half of that majority rose to oppose Lord Voldemort, the downfall of the current government will be almost…definite," Tom Riddle said. "This may very well turn out to be the first revolution of wizarding Britain."

"So if they do win, Dumbledore and Grindelwald will split Britain between them?" Harry asked.

"That can be a way of putting it."

"Grindelwald and Dumbledore… Are you sure their time in power will not be even worse than Voldemort's?"

"Already having regrets about freeing them?"

"Of course not! That's not what I meant!" Harry protested indignantly. "It's just…it's all going brilliantly and all; Voldemort's ruin cannot be far away and no one knows what will happen…"

Tom Riddle raised a mocking eyebrow, as if asking Harry to get straight to the point.

"…but it's a bit of a scary thought, isn't it? Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the two definitions of good and bad, working together? I mean, I have no doubt _Dumbledore's_ a great wizard but Grindelwald gives me an ill feeling."

"And you expected otherwise? Grindelwald is not a doting old grandpa; he is a _Dark Lord_, the cause behind the deaths of hundreds," Tom said.

"It is hard to find a logical reason why Dumbledore would continue the friendship if Grindelwald hadn't changed," Harry said. "Although if Grindelwald _had_ changed, why would he murder anyone so casually…even if she was _Carrow?_"

"There are two forms of successful dictatorship; the first being love and the second being fear. To achieve supreme power, one must either earn the love of a kingdom or they must carve fear into those whom they rule over."

Tom gazed coldly at Harry. "Adolf Hitler employed both, earning the love of the German people and striking fear into those who opposed him. Although his is the most powerful type of control, the opportunity to employ both love and fear is hard to come by. Voldemort mainly exercised fear."

"Although fear is more efficient, love is comparatively steadier in the long run. Dumbledore wants to utilise both. His plan is to win the love of British wizards and witches and to maintain his cover of purity. But love and respect is not enough to prevent opposition. So he unleashes Grindelwald, who will effortlessly achieve an incredible level of fear. Love, fear, and respect – Dumbledore wants them all."

"You are wrong," Harry objected. "He isn't like that. Just because you play games doesn't mean everyone does."

"Every politician does," Tom said, "and Dumbledore makes for a _superb _politician. Under the image of a kindly old man, he will be loved. Under the image of a Dark Lord, Grindelwald will be feared. Together, they will be an equal, if not greater, match for Voldemort."

"I'm not an idiot, Tom," Harry said tiredly, infuriated at the portrayal of Dumbledore. "You and I both know what Dumbledore's truly like, so I'd really appreciate it if you could stop lying for once."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."

Harry made an irritated noise at the back of his throat. "_Thank_ you, Tom."

"You are welcome."

Rolling his eyes at the mockery, Harry switched topics. "If all the students who wanted to leave were escorted out of the castle, what about the students who remained? How will they contact their families or their friends outside of school? What will happen to Hermione and Neville?"

"My humble guess would be that those who remained inside Hogwarts are those who are loyal to Dumbledore. Under normal circumstances they will most likely not be allowed to leave the grounds, but will be allowed to use the school owls. Predictably, the letters going by owl will be inspected," Tom said.

"Do the wards block only Voldemort or do they keep everyone out? Can I still go inside the school? Will Hogwarts still be a school?" Harry blurted. "Does Dumbledore ever plan on coming out? What if Voldemort hunts down the families of the students who are still at Hogwarts?"

"I may be a genius but I am not a Seer," Tom sneered, as he sprung up gracefully from his chair. "Your questions, as irksome as they are, can only be answered by time. However, I do suppose you _have_ been trapped in this cottage long enough – perhaps a trip to Hogsmeade will ease your cursed curiosity."

"Where's Hogsmeade?" Harry asked, brightening up at the prospect of finally leaving the modest little countryside cottage he and Tom currently inhabited. Sometimes, he couldn't help but feel slightly claustrophobic.

Despite the large amount of space in the countryside, Tom would never let him past the boundaries of the cottage, always retorting, 'If you want Voldemort to capture you, then by all means, go ahead' – and it was starting to drive Harry crazy.

Tom Riddle's face darkened at yet another question from Harry. "You will see," he said grimly. "Take my arm."

Harry stepped forward and gripped Tom tightly, shutting his eyes against the dizziness that came along with the Apparition.

When they arrived, Harry was pleasantly surprised by the picturesque little village of endearing cottages, huts and stores. It smelt of sweets, baking, and tangy butterbeer.

"Are we having lunch here?" Harry instantly asked.

"Perhaps," Tom said frostily, glaring at Harry, "perhaps _after _I have shopped."

"Uh…okay…" He had no idea what he had done to irritate Tom into a mood but he wasn't too bothered about it; Tom was too frequently in a temper.

"I need to go to Dogweed and Deathcap for potion ingredients."

"If you give me some money, I'll buy my own stuff without bothering you. We can meet up here in an hour," Harry said, spotting a sign that sported 'Zonko's Joke Shop.'

"No," Tom said coldly. "As harmless as this town looks, I do not need you running headfirst into trouble. You will come with me to the Herbology shop."

Suppressing a groan, Harry followed Tom obediently half way across Hogsmeade and into the desired store.

"Good morning, boys," a middle-aged lady greeted them kindly. "What can I do for you?"

"Monkswood, angel's trumpet, snakeweed, stinkweed, belladonna, narcissus, oleander, nightshade, deathcap, white snakeroot, water hemlock and venomous Tentacula leaf," Tom said smoothly. "I want them fresh and frozen."

The colour drained from the shopkeeper's face as she struggled to maintain her composure. "You boys don't look old enough to be out of school yet...you went to Hogwarts until yesterday, I assume?"

"I am of age," Tom reassured silkily, his confident smile easily covering the lie. "Jobs are so hard to find during these dark times. I work as a brewer."

The woman's expression softened. "Yes, yes, the Dark Lord's rule has been harsh on us all, not that I am protesting," she added quickly. "But the boy with you? He barely looks eleven."

"Hey, I am nearly _twelve!_" Harry retorted before he was silenced with a dangerous look from Tom.

"I apologise for my brother's ill manners. Please do not take it personally; he has always been like this," Tom said. "But I suppose he has been more irritable recently…" he lowered his voice, "since our mother's death."

"Oh, you poor, _poor_ children!" the woman gasped. "I'd offer you a place to stay but even_ I_ have seven mouths to feed, and I am considered well off."

Harry hid a grimace…but then again, Tom probably could reduce most people to such a state of compassion.

"Don't bother yourself," Tom said alluringly, his voice almost a purr. "We manage perfectly fine on our own, not that we are not grateful for the occasional kindness. The potion ingredients are so expensive these days, your store actually happened to be the cheapest, and finest, we found."

"Oh!" The woman perked up as if struck by an idea. "Tell you what, boys, you can take as much ingredients as you need…for free! Look at this as your lucky day."

"No! I mean, we cannot possibly –" Harry exclaimed immediately.

"He is quite right," Tom interrupted, "I have no wish to be of any burden to you. Your children need school fees and such."

"Your brother is so sweet, and you're so gracious." She beamed. "But you're no trouble. I'm not poor, and through these times, we can only rely on one another. I would be considered cruel if I take money from two young, orphaned boys."

Tom seemed to hesitate. "…if you are certain…" he said.

Harry stared incredulously at the Tom. How could he accept such an offer from a woman working so hard to feed her children?

"Oh, absolutely!" she gushed enthusiastically. "I'll wrap them for you right now!"

"I couldn't thank you enough," Tom said.

"No need to thank me. I should be thankful that you gave me the opportunity to do a kind deed," she said, as she darted through the room, seizing the ingredients of their shelves. "So what do you want, again? Monkswood, angel's trumpet…snakeweed and stink weed…wait, here's belladonna, narcissus, oleander…and nightshade with deathcap…white snakeroot? Oh, good. Water hemlock and venomous Tentacula leaf."

"Yes."

When the woman had packed everything and given the ingredients to Tom, she asked, "You sure you know what you're doing? All of these plants are very dark, and very dangerous should the brewing go wrong. Almost all of them concoct fatal poisons. Who, if I may ask, are you brewing for?"

"A Potions master in Germany," Tom said. "I assure you nothing unexpected will happen to me, I have confidence in my abilities."

"Good, good, I'd feel appalling if I knew the ingredients from my store killed a handsome, remarkable lad such as yourself."

"Thank you very much, Mrs…"

"Mrs Sue," she said. "Mary Sue."

"Very well, goodbye, Mrs Sue." And with that, Harry was led by Tom out of the store.

An hour later, Harry and Tom were seated in the Three Broomsticks and ordering lunch. "Honeydukes looks nice," Harry commented, glancing at the shop directly opposite theirs.

"Hmm. If you like having rotted teeth."

"I've never met a killjoy who kills more joy than you," he muttered, lifting up his fork to stab at a slice of beef.

"Hogsmeade is only one kilometre from Hogwarts," Tom said, switching the topic entirely. "Usually the students would be out here, savouring the delights of Honeydukes lollies and laughing at the tricks in Zonko's Joke Shop."

"Except we are the only children here."

"You may refer yourself as a _child_, but please do not give me such a belittling title. Use your head, Harry, why do you think they are not here?"

"The restrictions at Hogwarts," Harry said.

"And partially because Hogsmeade is regarded as extremely dangerous by the lack of wards to prevent Voldemort from plaguing it."

As if on cue, resounding cracks rang out all across the village of Hogsmeade. Figures cloaked in black with silver masks fixed eerily where their faces ought to have been poured like a dark liquid onto the streets.

"Death Eaters," Harry whispered.  
Tom was beside him in a second. "Crouch down, you fool! Under the table."

As much as he wanted to obey, Harry was unable to summon any strength into his legs. Glaring fiercely, Tom pulled forcefully him from his seat to his knees and shoved him under the table, ignoring the sound Harry's head made as it bumped against the wooden leg.

Harry saw Tom looking intensely out the window and shrank back in surprise when Tom winced. "He's here," Tom murmured. "Voldemort is here. I can sense his presence and he can sense mine too."

Like a cold fog, fear enveloped Harry in her embrace. "What is Vol…Voldemort doing here?"

"I was rash," Tom hissed in vexation. "I should never have brought you here… Of course he would act as soon as possible."

Harry recoiled and Tom ducked for cover as an offensive spell sailed in, shattering the windows. "Is he here for me?"

Tom glanced at him and quickly shook his head. "He is here for Dumbledore. He wants to take the wards down."

"Then someone has to alert Dumbledore!"

"His wards will alert him." Tom crouched beside Harry. "We are apparating home. Right now." Harry grabbed Tom's arm, but when nothing happened, he looked wide-eyed at the older Slytherin.

"Anti-Disapparating wards," Tom snarled viciously. "You do not have a wand, am I correct?"

"Of course not!" Harry yelped when more apparating sounds rang out. "I left mine at the manor!"

"Take mine." He stared in disbelief as Tom whipped his wand out from under his robes and offered it to him with a determined look.

"I can't take yours. It's _yours!_" Harry squeaked.

"Do you not understand? We must separate. Voldemort will try to recapture me, and you must not be on the scene," Tom said icily. "I can perform wandless magic and you, on the other hand, cannot."

"But there are at least forty Death Eaters out there!" Harry shook his head violently. "You will not stand a chance."

A sinister smile crept across Tom's chilling face. "I beg to differ. My magical capacity is beyond anything you imagined. I am Lord Voldemort. _None_ of them can match me."

"Tom, you arrogant idiot!" Harry said. "You'll attract Voldemort like a magnet. You _cannot_ defend yourself against Voldemort and the Death Eaters at the same time; even _you_ are not _that_ powerful."

"And if Voldemort finds us both, you will be a burden to me," Tom sneered. "Do _not_ move from your spot, do _not_ go out of this room, do _not_ duel any Death Eaters, and do_ not _act the hero…if you flout my instructions, I will make you regret it."

"But I –"

"You will only leave when I come for you, and not a second before."

"What if he captures you?" Harry snapped. "Do I stay here forever until I am so old that I fart dust?"

"Ever the cynical, Harry." With his black cloak flapping behind him, Tom slipped out and disappeared amongst the swarm of Death Eaters.

Harry leaned resignedly against the leg of the table, glancing at the abandoned yew wand. Tom Marvolo Riddle was a fool, facing the music without a weapon. Damn him and his _instructions_.

Harry slowly reached for the wand, feeling the cool sensation between his fingers. It seemed like a lingering presence of Tom Riddle, a reminder.

Gripping the wooden stick tightly, Harry cautiously crawled out from underneath the table. There, he had already broken Instruction Number 1. He shuffled forward until his back was against the wall and his eyes were directly next to the smashed window.

Peeking out, Harry was stunned at the scene that unfolded before him. The Death Eaters stood menacingly with their wands ready and their eyes flashing, but standing in their paths was a small crowd of wizards and witches Harry had seen shopping in Hogsmeade.

He watched as a Death Eater stepped forth. "Move aside and you will not be harmed. Otherwise, we will be forced to _remove_ you." It was a female voice and Harry suspected it was Bellatrix Lestrange who was speaking.

None of the witches and wizards budged even one inch. "Your lord's rule is coming to an end!" a wizard shouted. "Dumbledore is our leader! _Dumbledore!_"  
The others nodded their heads in a united agreement.

With the masks, Harry could not see the Death Eater's expressions, but he could tell they were seething. Bellatrix raised her wand threateningly. "One more chance," she warned.

It appeared Dumbledore's unexpected supporters did not require a second chance. They attacked the Death Eaters with gusto and the Death Eaters returned the favour with twice the ruthlessness.

It was astonishing that there were already daring wizards and witches willing to fight for Dumbledore.

Spells singed the air and dangerous curses whipped back and forth across the two sides. The quiet village of Hogsmeade had transformed into a battle ground. Sparks of red, white, and blue flew up. Smothering traces of magic clotted up the atmosphere.

He heard screams as spells struck their targets followed by a familiar cackle of triumph. Bellatrix, no doubt.

Harry's breath suddenly caught when a _five-year_ old girl with blonde hair walked directly past his shattered window. A child lost on a battlefield. That didn't look good.

Sill thinking clearly through the urgency of the moment, Harry cast a Notice-Me-Not on himself before he rushed out to join the storm, gripping Tom's wand tightly. The little girl was right in front of him, an arm's length away. He had to take her away from the battle…

A Limb-fracturing Curse flew past Harry and sped towards the unaware girl. Spurred on by a sense of dawning alarm, Harry lunged forward and pushed the child out of the way. The curse struck the ground exactly where she had stood a second ago.

The girl stood up bravely and pointed an accusing finger at Harry. "You _pushed_ me!"

"Yes," Harry deadpanned. He took her strongly by the arm and directed her quickly away from the danger. His Notice-Me-Not charm was fading but it didn't matter anymore. He pushed her into a dark, peaceful alleyway and stopped to catch his breath.

"Where is my Mom?" the girl whined. "You took me from my Mommy!" She struggled out of Harry's hold and kicked him in the ankle, causing him to hiss softly in pain.

"That's enough," Harry scolded, feeling faintly nauseous around such a small child; he had no experience whatsoever with children. "You shouldn't kick people, especially people who saved your life."

"You big, fat meanie!" the girl yelled. She looked like she was nearly in tears. "I want my Mommy!"

"Okay, okay," Harry soothed, feeling marginally panicky. "I promise you I'll help you find your Mommy. Now, be quiet unless you want the _real_ meanies to find us."

"I won't be quiet!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "You big, fat _liar! _I'll kill you, I'll _kill_ you!

Harry winced at the loud sound. She'd soon draw Death Eaters here if she didn't close her mouth. "Stop it, I'm serious. Don't –"

"Let me go!" She ducked under Harry and ran as fast as she could down the alleyway with Harry chasing after her.

"Wait! Stop!" Harry exclaimed. "You'll get yourself injured!" He stumbled over a ditch but continued running, sprinting past the brick buildings and turning round a corner.  
Only to stop dead in his tracks.

There was a tall, dark figure standing at the end of the alleyway. The blonde-haired girl was standing beside him, looking at Harry with a slight pout on her lips.

The figure twisted around and smiled eerily at him, his pale skin looking almost white in the dark. Harry felt his heart drop.

"Hello, Harry," Voldemort greeted lightly. "Fancy meeting you here." His hand held the yew wand which had made itself more familiar with Harry than he would have liked.

With his heart thumping vehemently against his chest, Harry spoke in a low voice, "Let her go, Voldemort. You have a score to settle with me. Leave _her _alone."

"I will not harm her, Harry, it is yourself who you should worry about," Voldemort murmured softly, yet Harry heard the Dark Lord's voice echo over and over again in his head. "I believe an introduction is in order."  
The sentence was said mockingly and Harry was scared to discover what it all meant.

"Harry, do you not recognise me?" the little girl asked, the words she spoke not matching her shrill, childish voice. "We are very well acquainted. I am Daphne Greengrass."

Harry looked in flabbergasted surprise from Voldemort to Daphne. He had been tricked, led headfirst into a trap.

"It seems, Harry, your saviour instincts have betrayed you again," the Dark Lord said in amusement. "I did not know your exact location but I knew I could force you out of your hiding place with a _small, defenceless, innocent_ girl. And now, I will force out Tom Riddle using you as bait."

"He will not come out," Harry said. "Surely you know his habit of self-preservation?"

"You have caused me a great amount of trouble," Voldemort said, "and you will be punished for it when we get home…and so will Tom."

"Your manor is _not_ my home!" Harry snarled.

"Such insolence," Voldemort sighed. "I do not understand how my younger self can endure it. _Crucio!_"

Harry threw himself away from the curse, having no desire to taste it again – but he knew it was inevitable unless something happened soon.

_"Flamos_," Voldemort whispered. The spell struck Harry with a whiplash sound and he immediately felt his back go up in flames, literally. An invisible fire burned up and down his body, blistering the skin until he finally sank on to his knees.

"Tom will not come," he gritted out, "no matter _what_ you do. I can prove –"

"It is a delight to know you think so lowly of me, Harry," came a composed voice, different to Voldemort's only in pitch.

Harry's head jerked up in astonishment at Tom's voice – and in a split second, the teenage Dark Lord was beside him, pulling Harry up on his feet. "Lowered yourself to abusing children, have we, Voldemort?" Tom inquired, his voice full of bitter amusement.

"Tom…" Voldemort hissed. "What an…unexpected pleasure. I suppose you came to fetch Harry."

"I did," Tom said simply. "And neither you nor your little girl will stop me." Daphne Greengrass flushed a dark shade of red.

"Very well," Voldemort said, smiling sinisterly, "then I must disappoint you. Take out your wand, Tom, and we shall duel. We must show Harry, in case he is misled, who is slightly…more powerful."

Tom did nothing. "I do not require a wand to defeat you," he said smoothly.

"Duelling the greatest Dark Lord of all time without a wand?" Voldemort raised his eyebrows sardonically. "Not the wisest decision, Tom, but I will humour you, nonetheless. Daphne, I trust you can manage Harry?"

"Of course, my Lord." Daphne smirked, an odd sight on the face of a little girl.

Without a warning of any kind, Tom Riddle sprang into action, his reflexes impressive as he delivered dangerous curses of all categories at Voldemort. His eyes flashing cunningly, Tom sidestepped the Dark Lord's offenses, and spells leapt up from his bare hand in an extraordinary defence.

Harry, meanwhile, was fighting his own battle with Daphne Greengrass. Although his duelling skills had improved incredibly – ironically thanks to Voldemort – the detestable girl had also perfected her abilities.

Fending off her curses, Harry managed to get through a few of his own. Whenever he attacked from his right, Daphne's guard would also shift, making her exceedingly difficult to strike.

But he wasn't lagging behind either. His level of vigilance and tension was so high up that not even a single twitch of Daphne's fingers could slip past his eyes unseen.

While duelling, Harry could feel panic choking him, so harshly that he began to worry he would fall victim to a panic attack. His mind was a blur; his duel with Daphne changed to automatic responses instead of conscious decisions… In his heart, he knew that despite Tom's egotism, the teenager was no match for the Dark Lord, at least not yet.

If he fell, Tom's falter would soon follow. Working under such intensity and pressure, a plan clicked into Harry's mind. He only prayed it could add to their slim chances of escapade.  
Harry slowly, subtly, lessened the distance between Daphne and himself, imperceptibly taking a step forward each time he fired a spell. Soon, he was merely two metres away from the little girl.

Sensing another barrage of curses coming, Harry ducked – and at the same time, lashed out as hard as he could with his right leg at Daphne's chest. His aim was true and Daphne, in her fragile five-year old body, toppled like a glass jar.

The next steps were easy; Harry's magic lured her into unconsciousness and bound her securely to the ground. She would not be able to fight any time soon. With Daphne out, Harry was free to join Tom and Voldemort in their fierce dance.

It was evident, when Harry aimed a couple of curses at Voldemort to deter his brutal assault towards Tom, that the older Slytherin was tiring while the Dark Lord still was as powerful as previously.

Perhaps Harry, still fresh with energy, could reduce some of Tom's stress. The teenage Dark Lord, being only sixteen, had managed to hold his own against Lord Voldemort – an impressive achievement in itself when any other fully grown wizard would have collapsed – but even that wasn't enough.

Harry stood next to Tom, shoulder to shoulder, and conjured his own shield, powerful and shining. "Attack him," Harry whispered. "I'll try and hold off his attacks."

"You fool," Tom hissed menacingly, "you defied my orders without a second thought." He slowly let down his shield and allowed Harry's to slip into place.

"Sorry," Harry muttered genuinely, flinching as the first volley of Voldemort's curses struck the shield. A crack split across the smooth surface frighteningly as the next bombardment hit as well. Harry felt crushed by the tremendous waves of magic; it would soon smother him and his shield. It made it seem all the more unbelievable how long Tom lasted.

"Tom!" he cried in desperation, and saw the Slytherin launching potent spell after potent spell at Voldemort. The quantity of magic crackled in the air as the Dark Lord finally slowed in his onslaught to maintain his own protection.

In next to no time, Voldemort began rapidly hailing curses on them again. Harry shuddered involuntarily at the weight as several more cracks danced across his shield.

"Harry," Tom said steely, "keep the shield up. I will check to test if the Disapparition wards are still in place; the Death Eaters, if they moved towards Hogwarts, may have taken them down."

With his forehead drenched in sweat, Harry barely had the strength to nod as he gritted his teeth against yet another relentless strike. His neck trembled from the strain of holding the cursed shield up.

He couldn't do it anymore…he was going to waver any moment. And then…a dizzying stroke hit him and he felt a pressure on his arm and he thought he heard a scream of outrage before he let unconsciousness take him.

—0O0—

Dumbledore, in gold coloured robes, stood wringing his hands in the great hall, in front of the students. Grindelwald was sitting coldly on one of the staff chairs, with a tight-lipped McGonagall perched stiffly beside him.

Dumbledore sighed. It seemed Minerva still resented Gellert's presence, as did most of the students and staff. They only tolerated the past Dark Lord because they trusted his judgement.

When everyone had quietened, Dumbledore peered at the four Houses over his half-moon spectacles and began his speech.

"Now as you know, each and every one of you has heard about the wards surrounding Hogwarts and you have the right to know why. Once, many decades ago, there was an ambitious young man very much like yourselves, a star pupil and a favourite amongst the teachers and students, who like you, sat in this very hall, walked this castle's corridors, slept under its roofs. He seemed to all the world a student like any other."

"His name? _Tom Riddle_."

Whispers started up in the crowd.

"When he reached seventeen, he left Hogwarts to do great things. He formed a group known widely for its unusual attributes. Today, of course, he is known by another name which is why I'm reminded of a sobering fact: every day, every hour, this very minute, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle's walls," he paused. "But in the end, their greatest weapon... is you."

"Even in the darkest of all darkness, hope can be found. I want to guide you to that hope. I want to end the reign of darkness."

The entire student body exploded in cheers.

"Hogwarts will serve as a sanctuary for all of us; within her walls, no one will be harmed in any way – the favour is extended to children of prominent Death Eater families. Although it will be forbidden for them to contact their parents and they will remain here for the rest of their school days – due to reasons all of you must already know, they will not be limited in any other fashion. I fear Voldemort's influence will plague you, our new generation, our brightest hope, and for that reason alone, _Hogwarts must stand!_"

* * *

**Oh, and the Mary Sue thing is supposed to be a little joke.**


	3. Transformation

**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything you recognise.**

**I want to thank hermionegranger026 for her open honesty, her effort to help me improve and her appreciated contributions. **

**Those of you who wish for Harry to mature will probably receive a nice surprise. **

* * *

Through exhausted, half-open lids, Harry blurrily saw the wooden floor moving beneath him. Only partially conscious, his sluggish mind wondered if he was being carried.

A door creaked open – or so he assumed – and moments later, he was dumped on something unexpectedly soft: a bed while a disconcerting dark silhouette leaned over him.

"Harry, open your eyes. Do not make me repeat myself," came a dangerously velvety voice that washed gently over him. "Now."

The last word, hissed out wrathfully, evoked a sense of urgency in Harry, and he wearily cracked open one eyelid to reveal an emerald orb.

"Will you care to explain to me, Harry, _why_ you had chosen to disobey me after I had made myself so clear?" asked Tom. "I do not understand your logic." This was spoken in a tone that did not bode well for Harry.

Lifting his head up, Harry licked his dried lips and rasped out, "The girl." He did not have enough energy to deal with Tom in full sentences.

"That innocent, little girl turned out to be Daphne Greengrass in her full capacity, leading you directly into the palm of Lord Voldemort," Tom said. "And you, with your saviour tendencies, rushed into the action without any regard for your own safety."

Harry sneered weakly. "Careful, Tom, you are beginning to sound like you actually care about my well-being."

In a split second, Harry's hand was pinned between Tom's slender fingers and crushed in a painful clasp. "Watch your tongue, Harry," he warned, his breath intimidatingly close to Harry's neck. "Or there will be consequences."

"Sorry," Harry muttered grudgingly, wincing as the older Slytherin freed his hand. "I wasn't intentionally ignoring your wishes. She just happened to come along – how was I supposed to know I would end up in a dark alleyway with Voldemort?"

"Perhaps," said Tom softly, "if you had complied with my instructions, you never would have seen Voldemort. Is it really so difficult to do as you are told?"

"I didn't –"

"I told you not to move from your spot, not to leave the store, not to duel any Death Eaters and not to act the hero. You did all of them."

"I didn't duel any Death Eaters," Harry protested feebly.

"You are quite corrected," agreed Tom sarcastically, "you merely duelled Voldemort."

Having spent the last of his remaining strength on arguing, Harry inhaled deeply and leaned heavily back on the pillow, closing his eyes tiredly. Not only was there an overwhelming physical fatigue but he also felt a draining sensation that left him empty.

"You need punishment," Tom said silkily, "both of us know it. I did, after all, say you would regret it. However… for the time being, you need more rest than punishment. I assume the duel with the Dark Lord has depleted your magic so severely that it is currently on a dangerously low status."

Harry paled. "What does that mean?"

"It means," said Tom slickly, "that you have to use your magic sparingly for the time being if you do not wish to loose it completely. Sleep will be the best medicine."

"Why aren't you tired too?"

An arrogant smirked laced Tom's handsome features. "Taking into account I will be as powerful as Lord Voldemort one day, I daresay my magical resources are greater than yours." He picked up his yew wand and waved it at Harry.

"How long will I be here?" Harry breathed softly, his eyes struggling to flutter open as he was suddenly invaded by a bout of supernatural drowsiness.

"How vague can one be, Harry?" Tom whispered, glancing at the figure he had forced into a magically induced sleep. "How long will you be on this bed? A few days. In this house? It depends. How long will you be by my side? A very, very long time."

—0O0—

_5 years later_

A dark figure, elegantly cloaked, moved lithely through the dangerous streets of Knockturn Alley like a gust of black smoke, stopped by no one and questioned by none.

The hooded figure walked across the cobblestone path silently, paying no heed – or perhaps was completely oblivious – to a screaming child in the arms of an old, leering witch, to his dirty surroundings, and to a hunched werewolf trailing behind him.

He did not pause to break his stride until he came to the store of Borgin and Burkes. He pushed the doors open and entered the gloomy room, sparing the ragged shop owner a swift nod of acknowledgement.

"Ralph Ashwood…how may I help you?" Mr Borgin asked, with a note of gladness in his voice. "You're the first customer I've had in days."

"Oh?" a voice emerged from beneath the black, concealing hood. "That's unfortunate."

"Indeed, Mister Ashwood," he said. "With Dumbledore's uprising and all, his supporters have tried to shut down Knockturn Alley along with its _dark_ artefacts. Now, is there anything lining my shelves that has caught your liking?"

"Anything you want to recommend from your professional point of view?"

"Yes, yes!" Borgin grinned. "I'll retrieve them for you, shall I?" While he ducked into the storage, the visitor who had been called Ralph Ashwood took the chance to inspect the mysterious objects on the dusty shelves.

"If you pardon me for my wretched curiosity, may I know what brings you here?" Borgin inquired, as he placed the items he collected in front of his visitor.

A few moments slipped past before Ashwood saw fit to reply. "A birthday present to a good friend."

"Another bright young man such as yourself… or someone else?" Borgin said.

The green eyes that burned out from under the hood turned cold. "His age is no concern of yours. I'll take the Hand of Glory, thank you very much."

"Seeing as you are a valued customer, I will cut the price down by half for you. Sixty galleons," Mr Bogin said cheerily, his voice sickly sweet. He stretched out an impatient hand.

Ashwood eyed the jagged, filthy in disgust as he answered smoothly, "I'm afraid the price is too high, Mr Borgin."

"Fifty eight galleons."

"Twenty."

"Fifty galleons, and I'm not gonna go any lower," Borgin growled. "Business is low these days –"

"I suggest you do not try to use me to recover the money your business lost," Ashwood warned. "Take the twenty galleons or I will find another store to shop in."

"Fine," Borgin spat, "on the condition you take off your hood. In the four years you have shopped here, I have never seen your face and I daresay the identity you gave me is false."

Ralph Ashwood stiffened. "Each of us has secrets to hide – and I won't pretend I don't – but I have found from experience that those who do have secrets usually do not divulge them."

He tossed twenty galleons onto the counter, took the wrapped purchase, turned on his heels and swept out of the shop.

The moment he exited, an animalistic form lunged at him, but his wand was already in his hand and he did not hesitate in digging it sharply into the man's exposed neck. "Tell me, werewolf, what do you want?" he said. "You were stalking me when I came."

"How did you know –?"

"The yellow tint in your irises and the fact the full moon is only nights away. Please, answer _my_ question."

The man snarled at him. "I was going to kill you and take your money. You looked like rich folk. I don't give a damn whether you kill me. My kin will go after you and avenge my death. Fenrir Greyback, heard of him? He serves the Dark Lord."

"Greyback…never heard of the name," he replied jauntily. "I suppose I can easily kill you, only I am not as low as you. _Stupefy_."

Then, Ralph Ashwood let go of the unconscious form and disapparated.

—0O0—

He apparated to the edge of town, into a lonely street with only one house. Expectedly, the door to the house was wide open and light poured out generously. A young man stood in the doorway, glaring at him.

"Sorry, just had to pop out for a while," he apologised as he brushed past the older boy and stepped into the inviting warmth of the house.

"Without leaving a note? You are becoming more and more careless."

"Okay, I'll make sure to tell you if Voldemort ever catches me,_ mother,_" he joked lightly, letting down his hood to reveal a head of raven hair.

"Where did you go?" Tom demanded.

"Knockturn Alley, nowhere dangerous," Harry said. "Borgin and Burkes."

"If I recall correctly, this is the thirtieth time you left without my permission."

"Look, Tom, don't ruin things on your own special day," Harry groaned, pushing the bundle into the older boy's arms. "Happy twenty-first birthday."

The look on Tom's face was priceless. "I did not ask for a present," he said slowly, and Harry snickered aloud.

"Think of it as a gift of gratitude for protecting me against Voldemort," Harry said casually, flopping onto a couch, subtly observing the pink tinge that coloured Tom's cheeks in amusement. It was not quite a blush but the closest the teenage Dark Lord came to.

"Put it on the mantelpiece, Harry," Tom said.

"What? Aren't you going to open it?" Harry asked, leaping up to block the way to the kitchen. "Don't tell me you don't know how to strip away paper."

"Get out of my way, Harry. I am going to provide you your dinner," came the dry reply.

"Oh, you don't need to do that either." Harry smirked widely like a Cheshire cat. "I spent the afternoon baking a cake."

"How _thoughtful_ of you," Tom remarked sarcastically. "I wonder where it is now."

"In the Muggle oven you never use. I thought I may as well put the rusting machine to good use. The cake's strawberry, your favourite," he said silkily.

A sound that seemed suspiciously like choking came from Tom. "You are mistaken; I do not _have_ favourites in flavours," he said automatically.

"What about those strawberry tarts you eat?" Harry pointed out. "Besides, once Voldemort had actually _told_ me he liked them. Penny!"

Instantly, a female house elf appeared at Harry's summon. "Hath Master Harry summoned I?"

"Yes, Penny," said Harry, smiling at the words. The endearing house elf had developed an obsession with Shakespeare and had taught herself a few words of Old English which she attempted to use at every possible chance. Harry thought it sounded rather sophisticated. "Can you please bring us the champagne bottle and strawberry cake in the oven? Be careful not to burn yourself."

"I shalt, I shalt!" Penny chirped and disapparated into the kitchen.

"She sounds appalling," Tom sneered. "Why must you encourage her?"

"I've proven Voldemort wrong," Harry said. "He insisted house elves were incapable of independent thought, that they wanted to be treated badly, that they dislike people who regard them as equals. Penny is living proof against all those claims."

Years ago, Tom had brought the elf home as a servant, and she had instantly taken a shine to Harry, who enthusiastically returned the favour. Since then, Penny had been following them from house to house, as they regularly relocated to avoid capture by Voldemort. Harry swore her favourite phrase was, "Whither thou goest, I shalt go."

"Hither I cometh!" Penny squeaked cheerfully as she set the cake and champagne in front of Harry and Tom.

Swiftly, Harry uncorked the bottle and poured both he and Tom generous glasses. Raising his, he said, "Twenty one candles for twenty one years, and may you live through many more."

Tom smirked. "I think the correct terminology should be 'eternity'." He took a sip, nonetheless, and casually scanned Harry's face. "What are you up to, nowadays, when I am out?"

"I manage to create fun for myself," Harry replied lightly, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "Knockturn Alley offers so much entertainment – if you can overlook the filth littering the streets."

"You know…" Tom said slowly, "they say never to underestimate the power of an associate's influence; they say you can adopt a part of a friend's personality over time. I must commend you, Harry…you've become a marvellous liar."

Harry shrugged unconcernedly, looking calmly at the Slytherin sitting opposite him. "You're not so bad yourself."

"I find it difficult to believe a vigorous young man such as yourself would find idle recreation _fun_," Tom murmured mockingly. "In the last few weeks, I have heard talk of a 'determined, fiery teen' who launched an ambitious speech in Diagon Alley that passionately supported Dumbledore. According to some shoppers, it had been 'powerful and swaying'."

"How nice."

"The young man had been described as having 'flaxen hair and stunning green eyes'," Tom crooned. And then, he dove for the attack. "Apparently his name was Ralph Ashwood."

"As you can see, Tom, I do not have blonde hair," Harry said.

"But Ralph Ashwood is your alias, is it not?" Tom said. "Tempted by the rumours, I went there yesterday and listened to your entire speech."

Instead of looking discomforted, Harry gave a clever smile and allowed his mask to crumble to pieces. "Was I any good? Did you enjoy it?"

"Your speech was powerful and you adopted a silver tongue in the midst of it; impressive enough, but 'enjoy' is not the word for me," said Tom. "I would prefer it if you did not sing Dumbledore's praises for the whole wizarding world to hear."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I can support whoever I want, Tom. In the last five years, Dumbledore gained enormous ground against Voldemort; Death Eaters have been forcefully cleared from the Ministry and other political standings, and the public has turned against Voldemort. In another few months, he may draw his followers into hiding. Isn't that what you said – support the winning side?"

"Dumbledore and Grindelwald have gathered more power than I previously imagined; once they defeat Voldemort and begin their reign, they will be extremely hard to knock off their thrones," Tom said. "When that time arrives, no one will be capable of stopping them. It must not happen."

"What were you hoping for when you released Dumbledore and Grindelwald?" Harry said. "To kill two birds with one stone and let Voldemort battle it out with Dumbledore until both sides are weakened enough for you to rise to power?"

"You have hit the mark, more or less."

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "Your mind is unbelievably twisted, Tom. I, for one, am satisfied with the current progress Dumbledore's making."

"Dumbledore's progress," hissed Tom, "is made from ordering Grindelwald to kill off individual Death Eaters, holding children of Death Eaters – like Draco – hostage, bargaining with the media for a sick portrayal of Voldemort and other political methods you would consider wicked."

"He is holding students like Draco at Hogwarts to keep them save from Voldemort's corruption."

"His claims can be trusted no more than you can trust the Dark Lord," Tom said bitingly. "Tragically, your brain doesn't seem to have the capacity to recognise the fact. Shock me, Harry, say something intelligent."

Harry regarded at Tom levelly, with composure – an ability he had acquired through the years with the young Dark Lord. "Being around you is like a cancer of the soul. Excuse me, Tom, I need to go out for a walk…alone. Perhaps you will have opened your present when I come back." He got up and went for the door, aware of the freezing glare burning a hole in his back.

"I wouldn't recommend that, Harry," Tom drawled. The door locked itself. "It is my birthday after all, and I will get what I want. Sit down."

The words that would have sounded so childish had they come from anyone else sounded perfectly authoritative coming from Tom…but Harry couldn't care less. "Say please," Harry said, a small, sardonic smile lacing his voice, "like a polite little boy."

Tom's eyes sparkled dangerously, but he purred mockingly, "_Please_, Harry."

"Since you asked so nicely," Harry paused, "I suppose I should comply. It _is_ your birthday. What do you want to do?"

"Let's talk…about you." Tom entwined his slender fingers together and coolly held Harry's gaze. "Beyond belief, is it not? What five years can do to someone? Despite your preposterous sentiments, you have altered admirably."

"What do you mean?" Harry spoke in genuine surprise. "I haven't changed."

Tom's lip curled upwards in entertainment. "Have you not noticed? I no longer have a pathetic little snivelling boy on my hands; instead, I have a resourceful ally whom I moulded myself." He glanced at Harry with something akin to triumph. "You have matured."

Harry gave a light snort. "The world has come to an end; the almighty Tom Riddle has paid me a compliment. Seeing as I am sixteen, nearly seventeen, the fact that I've 'matured' – as you put it – really shouldn't come as a shocker."

"You are persuasive, charismatic even, when you wish to be. You are a powerful duellist, trained by myself in the Dark Arts. You have become a force to be reckoned with," Tom hissed. "However, you plant your loyalty in the wrong place: with Dumbledore."

Even with all his developed self-control, Harry felt a shiver creep up his spine at the sinister words. "You overestimate me, and your own skills at 'moulding'. I am not your acclaimed dark ally and neither do I want to be. I support Dumbledore."

"Your naivety has returned. Do you honestly believe that Dumbledore will welcome you if he learns you have dabbed in the Dark Arts for half of your life, that he will accept you as _Voldemort's precious Horcrux_?"

"You _forced_ me to study the Dark Arts, and I obliged for the sake of fighting the dark _with_ the dark. Dumbledore himself works alongside Grindelwald, a dark wizard." Harry said. "I have no intention of telling him I'm a Horcrux. Besides, even if he does find out, he'll know I'm nothing like Voldemort; I did help him in Nurmengard, after all."

"Then, Harry, why have you not attempted to approach Dumbledore in the last five years if you are so confident he will accept you?" Tom scorned. "You are afraid, afraid he will reject you. Over-indulgence in your ridiculous fantasies will do you no good; you are consumed by your own idealised image of a white saviour. I assure you, it is not the true Dumbledore."

A look of uncertainty threatened to flit across Harry's face, but he schooled his expression resolutely into a blank mask. "I am going to bed; it has been a tiring day. I'd appreciate it if you could pardon me…" he sidestepped Tom and made a quick gesture at the elf. "Penny, light up the fireplace in my bedroom for me, will you?"

"Certainly, Master Harry." Penny scuttled merrily to her duty.

Harry watched her go with a trapped sense of morose in his stomach, knowing Tom Riddle, the devil, was the cause. "Goodnight, Tom," he said, bitterly. "I do hope you're satisfied. It _is_ your birthday."

—0O0—

A lone figure, like a ghost, moved out from amongst the protective, cloaking shadows of the trees. Trailing him was a female, her head bent in a display of devoted submissiveness.

"You understand what you need to do, Bellatrix?" Voldemort questioned, his breath forming a fog in the glacial night air.

"Naturally, my Lord." The answer came in a highly confident tone. "We are to abduct as many of the children of Dumbledore's supporters as possible once the wards have been taken down."

"This town consists solely of his devotees, meaning additional, excessively powerful wards have been set in place by Dumbledore himself, along with equipped spells that would alert him as soon as the wards are disturbed."

"All the necessary preparations are in place, my Lord," Bellatrix said.

"My magic will effortlessly tear the old codger's wards down, but the alert spells are unstoppable," Voldemort said quietly. "Fast movement is required. Capture as many as you can, wound the remaining, and destroy the houses. Leave no resistance behind. Await my order."

He glided, unnoticed, through the fields and towards the concentrated, resilient bubble of defensive force that drew across the entire town. The Dark Lord prudently sent out a tentacle of magic grazing the surface of the defence, testing its strength. A wave of fervent retaliating magic shot back, but it mattered very little to Lord Voldemort.

He had found the weakest point in Dumbledore's barrier, a dent in the shield. And he lashed at it with the full impact of his power. When the two potencies met, one immobile and the other hurtling, a thunderous crack sounded, and the ground trembled from the sheer ferocity of the blow.

For a moment, it seemed the wards had withstood Lord Voldemort's attack – but a thin, fracture slithered across the flawless surface, shadowed by numerous more.

There was another tremendous splitting sound as the wards collapsed entirely, like a sand castle, breaking into fragments of dust that instantly vanished.

"_Mosmordre_," Voldemort whispered, the hiss behind his words lingering in the wind.

A colossal skull burst from the tip of his wand, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. It rose higher and higher, coiling and twisting like a mutated basilisk, blazing in a haze of hellish, green smoke, etched against the black sky like an eerie, new constellation. The Dark Mark.

Following the breakthrough, cracks of apparition blew up the nightly silence, signalling the beginning of a Death Eater raid, a raid aimed to strike at the very heart of Dumbledore, in the name of Lord Voldemort.

Whoops of triumph and savagery arose from the Death Eaters who were already within the petite town, shooting spells and setting rooftops aflame, seemingly intent on smoking the residents out.

A sinister smile crossed Voldemort's face momentarily as Bellatrix darted forward to join the fray, cackling madly, with her black, torn dress fluttering after her.

The once-peaceful town was a mess; with ripped roofs, shattered windows, mothers screaming for their children… Voldemort observed all of it with an untouched air. None of them mattered; they all were pawns in the deadly game between him and Dumbledore.

Woken up by the noise, and caught entirely off guard, the inhabitants barely enough time to grab their wands before flurries of curses flew in. Many had tried to apparate, in vain. A woman named Molly Weasley, along with her husband and son, had been amongst them.

As the fifty Death Eaters spread across the town and enveloped it like a second Great Plague, they seized with them countless tearful children, varying in ages with some as young as six and others as old as sixteen.

"Come out, little girl, come out from your mummy's embrace and play," Bellatrix jeered, her black eyes pinning a distressed woman, who was desperately attempting to hide her daughter behind her, against the wall.

"Please, please, I _beg_ you!" the woman shrieked. "Have mercy! Don't – don't take her away, please, I swear I will be in your debt forever – _no!_"

"Accio," Bellatrix said lazily, waving her wand at the girl. To the despair of the mother, Bellatrix, in an astonishing display of strength, hoisted the eight year old on to her shoulders and disappeared amidst the sea of Death Eaters.

Meanwhile, Molly Weasley and Arthur Weasley had joined together to fend off anyone who endangered their son, much to the protest of the sixteen year old. "I'm bloody old enough to kill a couple Death Eaters! I'm not a baby!" he was saying – but his complaints ebbed away upon seeing the scorching glare of one of the masked figures.

However, it was too late to fall silent, for the masked follower advanced menacingly towards them while Ron's parents huddled ever closer.

Tall and lithe, the only thing unconcealed by the silver mask was a lock of blonde hair. "Ah, the Weasleys, what a pleasure meeting you here. You seem to have moved houses…at the wrong place and wrong time, it appears."

"Malfoy!" Mr Weasley snarled, his face lighting up in recognition. "You slinking worm of a Death Eater!"

"Careful, Arthur, be very careful of what you say." There was a wicked smile in his voice. "I may take out my offense on your son when we capture him. Who knows when Dumbledore save the children? Or if there will be anything to save of your dear little Ronald."

"Take that back!" Ron yelled, his ears pink with rage. "Don't you dare threaten my parents."

"Your son is very brave. Or very foolish. Either way, the Dark Lord would want to meet him," Lucius commented. "Speaking of Ronald, where is your youngest daughter? Or did you have a couple more?"

Mrs Weasley flushed. "We won't let you take him."

"It is not a matter concerning only your son. All the children are being taken," Lucius said airily. "Unless you want to personally face the Dark Lord's wrath, I suggest you hand him over. The Dark Lord is here, you know."

The Weasleys blanched. "He's lying, the slippery ferret," Mr Weasley said roughly, to his wife. And then to Malfoy, "You will keep your grimy paws off our son."

"Get a move on, Lucius," Bellatrix sneered, choosing that moment to appear. "The wards have alerted Dumbledore and the Dark Lord is waiting."

Mr Weasley took a disbelieving look at the form on the female Death Eater's shoulder. "You've really bent as low as to kidnap somebody's daughter?" His voice tightened with rage and disgust. "Dumbledore will never let you get away with it, you slimy monsters. What have you _done_ to her?"

"Knocked her out," Bellatrix said coldly. "The whining hurt my ears. Hurry, Lucius, and get the weasel brat."

Before anyone could do anything, there was a small bang. The end result was an old man standing before Bellatrix and Lucius, smiling unnervingly from a twisted mouth. "I bring regards from Dumbledore," he said, his voice unnaturally jolly. "And a present for _his_ followers."

The tree behind Bellatrix exploded, and she sprang out of the way of a plummeting, flaming branch, snarling like a beast. "You dare…"

Another flaming branch whipped brutally at her in reply, catching her on the waist. A flash of pain sparked in her eyes, which swiftly darkened into fury. "_Crucio_!" Bellatrix barked, her lips curving crazily into a leer. "I'll _kill_ you, I'll _kill_ you, I'll _kill_ you!" she chanted, laughing wildly as she threw curse after curse like the skilled duellist she was. Beside her, Lucius was doing the same.

"Impressive duelling talents," remarked Grindelwald, "more than I expected, but nothing to rival mine." He flicked his wand impatiently, and sent Bellatrix tearing through the air like a limp ragdoll. Lucius Malfoy was staring incredulously at the crumpled body, the Weasleys were fearfully crouching together behind Grindelwald, and then –

"That is enough," Voldemort said coolly. "I expect you destroyed the anti-disapparition wards, and apparated here, Grindelwald…but it is ill-mannered to cripple one's lieutenant without one's permission."

"Enchanted to see you so well, after all the political harassment and public disgrace, _my Lord_," Grindelwald said, mockingly. "You don't look a day older."

"I can say specifically the same about you, Gellert," Voldemort murmured, evenly. "You look decades younger than Dumbledore…although your birth certificate _must_ have expired sometime in the last five years."

"Resorting to throwing petty insults around, Tom?" Grindelwald chuckled, surprisingly pleasantly. "It's only natural of course, seeing as you have already resorted to abducting children."

"If you echo Dumbledore's words, he speaks hypocritically; has he not chained children of my Death Eaters by his side, inside Hogwarts, under the excuse of protecting them, for five years? Every moment you linger here, my Death Eaters bring more children to my headquarters," Voldemort hissed softly. "I have an inkling Dumbledore will not be particularly happy. For that matter, why has he sent you to do his dirty job?"

"Albus is busy scheming another strike against you. This blow may topple your last line of defence."

The Dark Lord glanced calmly at the wand between his fingers. "You have irked me, you and Dumbledore, for too long a time and too often. Perhaps you will discover my magic to be overwhelming enough to 'rival' yours. I have, after all, defeated Dumbledore – and he has once defeated you."

The ensuing duel was a legendary one, an exhibition of both Dark Lords' might as they faced off. Explosions, eruptions, knives, daggers, Cruciatus Curses and spells with the potential to destroy were all a part of the inferno which belted from the palms of Lord Voldemort and Grindelwald; out of control, indestructible and armed with the capacity to reduce a mortal to a pool of dust.

The Weasleys clustered together uselessly, too awed and terrified by the scene to move away.

Although there were no obvious signs of who possessed more power and endurance, there were subtle hints; for every curse released by Grindelwald, the Dark Lord would return the favour with double the coldness, ruthlessness, precision and speed. To an experienced observer, there was little doubt who would claim final triumph in the long run.  
However, neither wizard was unleashing their greatest power. The duel that had eventually led to Dumbledore's defeat had occupied three nights – and Voldemort had no intention of remaining that long.

In the end, it had been an unexpected trick that had resulted in Voldemort's quick advantage. The Dark Lord had feigned obliviousness, and purposely let a deadly spell pass through his tight shields. It had dug into him, and feed on him hungrily, until he bore hindering wounds. When Grindelwald closed in for the kill, Voldemort had callously conjured a sword and plunged it into the wizard's chest.

A trade of sorts had been made – his own injuries for his success. Apparently unimpeded by the pain, the Dark Lord had grabbed Ron Weasley and apparated, with Lucius supporting Bellatrix.

Two hundred kilometres away, Harry Potter awoke, screaming, from a nightmare.


	4. Doubt

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. A lovely lady called Joanne Rowling does.**

**I'd like to thank all my reviewers and regularhp (for your lengthy review and questions which will all be answered eventually, Boblove321 (for your loyal reviews which I can expect every time), and Quinn and Valor (for your immense number of comments).**

**I sincerely apologise for all those who want this to be a slash, but I do not write slash or anything sexual. Forgive me.**

**In this chapter, Voldemort displays an unnaturally human side while we discover a little scene between Dumbledore and Grindelwald.**

* * *

Sweat broke over his forehead. He felt like he was being boiled alive – and yet frozen like an ice cube from the inside. His heart shrivelled up and twisted agonisingly. He had no control over his body or mind; he _was_ the Dark Lord. Never had he ever experienced so much magic, so much power, pulsating through his veins as he duelled the legendary Grindelwald.

Only two emotions had throbbed through him: wrath and triumph. He heard himself speaking in a chillingly high voice, carefully taunting Grindelwald while accepting the same taunts with nothing but a cold anger.

He had deflected all dangerous curses but one – he had let one slip through his indestructible shields. There was a flash of intense pain, but he remained as emotionlessly focused as ever. Until triumph took over, until the sword had been plunged in Grindelwald's chest, until he had won.

Finally, Harry's mouth opened wide, and he let out a terrible, tortured scream.

Faintly, he registered his bedroom door being slammed open, and a dark form leaning over him…and a sharp voice urging him to break free of the restraints.

"_Harry!_ Force the emotions out, force _his_ emotions out. _Wake up_, you imbecile!"

An icy hand whipped ruthlessly across his cheek, and Harry found himself yanked viciously into the reality of the darkness in his room. "Tom?" He winced. "I don't want to become him, not Voldemort. I _was_ him. I –"

"Not a word, Harry," Tom Riddle commanded. "You are not Voldemort, you never will be. It was a nightmare, a vision; you saw through _his_ mind."

Harry shivered, his face troubled, but he said firmly, "I can deal with it. Get out, Tom. Next time I scream, don't come in here."

It seemed the young Dark Lord did not appreciate the comment particularly. "You do not get to order me around, Harry," he said, his expression darkening. "This is not the first time this happened, is it? You neglected to mention anything to me."

"Did I?" Harry sneered. "I do think it is well within my rights to keep a few trivial nightmares to myself, don't you? I reckon I deserve privacy too."

Tom returned the sneer with triple the disdain. "If ignorance truly equals bliss, you'd be the happiest little boy on earth. These 'trivial' nightmares are visions of real events experienced by the Dark Lord; whatever you have seen has actually taken place tonight."

A gagging sound emerged from the back of Harry's throat, and he threw back the covers, thrust past Tom, bolted into the bathroom and lurched over the sink.

With his fingers gripping the edges of the hand basin so tightly that his knuckles turned white, Harry retched horribly. Strands of black hair fell into his eyes as he endeavoured to force his stomach to settle, struggling to squelch the ugly heaving.

Tom Riddle quietly observed him, arms crossed, his tall frame leaning against the doorway. "Let it out," he advised.

After a couple of dry heaves, an acrid, pungent taste spread across his tongue. He choked on it. A gush of vomit, disgustingly bitter, surged into his mouth and nose, and automatically splashed in the sink.

A short pause, and another flood of half-digested contents spilt out, sloshing on the sides. Shoulders shaking from the strain, Harry continued to hurl until his stomach was empty of all matters.

Even when he had finished, a lingering nauseating aftertaste remained in his mouth. Without looking up or meeting Tom's face, Harry grabbed his toothbrush and smeared toothpaste over it hurriedly, desperate to rid the bile.

Humiliated by the intensity of Tom's watch, Harry splattered water over his face and dried himself with a towel while determinedly paying no heed to the older boy. He brushed past Tom wordlessly and went back to his bedroom, suddenly feeling immensely sullen.

"I've always said you had a weak stomach," Tom remarked, tone aimed to provoke.

"Do you have to follow me everywhere?" Harry snapped. The parade of open weakness had been a great blow to his pride.

"I suppose we can carry on the battle of wits, but I do not like to fight the unarmed," Tom replied, lightly. "Calm yourself; you are hyperventilating."

The sharp retort on Harry's lips died when he realised his breathing _was_ more rapid than normal – Tom's doing, no doubt. It had been such a long, long time since he had last exploded in a fit of anger; having gained better control of his emotions as he aged…but the vision of Voldemort coupled with the vomiting was too much of a trigger for him to overcome.

"You have red spots around your eyes, made by broken capillaries, which will fade in a few days," Tom said. "You have burst them through straining."

"Capillaries?" Harry asked, aloofly.

For once, the older Slytherin did not make a cutting comment on his vocabulary. "Tiny blood vessels."

_Well, that was good news,_ Harry thought ironically, _at least he hadn't broken _big _blood vessels in the process of puking his liver out. _

"Given that you have successfully emptied out your intestines," said Tom sarcastically, "you must have recognised the severity of the situation, and thus, you should be ready to tell me precisely how many visions you have mistaken for nightmares in the past five years."

Overlooking the affront, Harry replied truthfully, "I've forgotten."

Tom narrowed his eyes chillingly at the unsatisfactory response. "If that is intended to be impertinence, I suppose I ought to warn you my tolerance is running out. If it is a candid demonstration of your poor memory, you should try harder to recall."

Harry sighed, and pressed his fingers to his temple. "No more than five times, and all of them in this year," he said eventually.

"The connection is strengthening," said Tom. "The Dark Lord may soon discover your mental link. In view of the fact that you are hopeless at Occlumency, we will have to apply another defence against him."

There was some truth behind Tom's words; he _was_ dreadful at the mind art; after several aggravating sessions, with the last one finishing with Harry storming out, Tom had finally given up.

"What was your latest vision about?" Tom said.

Raising his eyebrows, Harry said slickly, "I do not particularly want to share the information, if you don't mind."

"I mind very much. In case you misunderstood, it was not a question." Tom's voice had dropped to a freezing point. "To elicit a physical reaction from you such as vomiting, the information has to be exceptionally important, not to mention stressful…hence, I wish to hear."

"Grindelwald is dead." Harry's curt answer echoed emptily across the room, astounding Tom Riddle, from the looks of his expression. "I killed him… Voldemort did."

"It is impossible," Tom said, definitively. "Dumbledore may be old but he is no fool. If there was the slightest chance of Grindelwald's death, he would not have risked it."

"Voldemort tricked Grindelwald at his own expense after intentionally injuring himself," Harry said. "Grindelwald was stabbed with a sword in the chest. I felt everything."

"As much as I can appreciate the idea that Grindelwald died, I can guarantee you he did not…and Voldemort knows it," Tom mused thoughtfully. "His death defies all logic. Why would Dumbledore sign away the life of his greatest ally? Why would Grindelwald voluntarily jeopardise his own life? And above all, why did Dumbledore not accompany Grindelwald and finish Voldemort off?"

—0O0—

The Dark Lord alighted on the marble floors of the manor hall with a swish of his tattered robes to be greeted by the deafening screams, cries and yells of _children_. He tossed Ron Weasley, who seemed too petrified in his presence to resist, carelessly aside, into the arms of another Death Eater.

Despite bearing several deep slashes beneath the robes, the Dark Lord coldly maintained his composure, looking upon his chaotic environment with discernible disdain. "Silence," he demanded, imperiously.

Immediately, _miraculously_, order restored to the hall as the children fell quiet one by one, gazing fearfully at the figure that they had formerly only envisioned in their minds' eye.

"How many are there?"

"We've captured thirty eight children, my Lord," McNair replied, twisting the arm of a teen viciously. "Thirty eight of Dumbledore's silly, spoilt, precious, little curs." He spat aggressively at the adolescents.

"Splendid." The corner of Voldemort's lip curled upwards in a cruel smile. "We will see how quickly they break under torture."

A child, perhaps no older than seven, unwisely chose that moment to launch into a fit of wailing, howling and thrashing. Pouting touchily, she let out a shriek of rage and shied away from her Death Eater captor's grip.

"I have no recollection of ever having thrown such juvenile tantrums," Voldemort remarked apathetically. "I have no lenience for boorishness from toddlers, and thus, they must be curbed. Perhaps this will put an end to her _charming_ performance – _scourgify_."

The girl's screeches abruptly halted. There was a small whimper and a pitiful choking sound as the soap bubbled swelled in her mouth and bubbled out.

"Dammit, she's just a kid!" An angry outburst exploded from the tip of Ron Weasley's impulsive tongue.

Everyone seemed to have stopped breathing, everything came to a standstill; the tension was so dense and suffocating that it almost became corporeal. Ron drew in a sharp breathe as Voldemort's penetrating glance sluiced over him.

"Weasley…please continue…you have gained my attention," Voldemort said serenely, his eyes taunting.

Ron appeared to have clammed up; pallid, edgy and sweating like a pig, giving the impression of an unintelligent, gawping goldfish that was entirely mystified about how he should answer the Dark Lord.

"Such a clever, young boy," Lord Voldemort expressed his amusement. "He seems as if he appreciates the phrase 'it is better to let someone assume you are an idiot than to open your mouth and prove it.'" The jab was greeted with a round of harsh laughter from the Death Eaters.

Ron flushed a beetroot red, unsure whether he was being paid a compliment or an insult. The laughter grew even louder as his expression settled for something in between incomprehension and panic.

"If you wish to blame anyone for your current predicament, feel free to blame Dumbledore," Voldemort said clearly. "He committed high treason, rebelling against _my_ regime."

"A regime that has died," Ron muttered softly, under his breath.

The Dark Lord whirled around, his eyes blazing like twin ice shards, and sneered, "_Diffindo_."  
Several cut wounds slashed along Ron's arm, revealing the unappetizing blend of white flesh and red blood. A girlish, piggy squeal tumbled out of his throat, and he glared, his freckled cheeks reddening with mortification.

Voldemort chuckled deeply, and languidly gestured at Lucius Malfoy. "Take the brats to the dungeons, and give my guests your tender care. I wish to be alone."

Ever so obedient, the Death Eaters eagerly herded the children out of the hall. When a hand grasped for Ron Weasley, Voldemort interrupted quietly, "Leave the boy."

In a matter of seconds, the room was emptied and Ron was alone with the greatest dark wizard of all time. "So," Voldemort started adeptly, "Mr Weasley, tell me about your parents." His tone left no room for resistance, but Ron seemed to want to resist the innocent question anyway. "I don't know anything," Ron said stiffly.

The Dark Lord's pale fingers twitched, as if itching to hex the audacity out of him. "You cannot possibly be saying you know nothing of your parents. Occupations? Religions? Political stance? Family friends? Financial problems?"

An angry tint of pink coloured Ron's ears at 'financial problems', motivating him to spit out. "We may not be what you would call _rich_ but at least we can call ourselves human."

An ominous glint passed fleetingly across Voldemort's eyes before he smiled indulgently at the red haired child. "You have quite the courage, boy, but know that there is a very fine line between bravery and stupidity."

The cautioning hint was too subtle for Ron's relatively blunt attitude, and he did not relent. "Anything similarities between you and a human is purely coincidental," he said, ploughing on like a blind bull. "You can torture me or whatever, but you'll never get any useful information out of me."

"I beg to differ." Voldemort's voice had lowered dangerously to a hiss. "Regardless of the strength in your body, a little pain in the right places will have you _begging_ to spill all your secrets." The wand perched in his hand flashed meaningfully.

Ron Weasley instinctively reared back, his freckles turning immediately from red to white. His jaws clamped shut.

"Everyone is entitled to act idiotically once in a while…but you abuse the privilege," Voldemort said smoothly. "I have come across rotting carcasses that are less offensive than you, and offending me is not the _cleverest_ idea."

There was a distinctive quiver in the adolescent's movements when Voldemort drew the comparison with rotting carcasses; he looked like he was caught amidst resentment and fear.

"It is a defining characteristic of the Weasley family, is it not – to be _weak_ and _mouthy?"_ Voldemort asked. "You make a fine son for your father; you will effortlessly carry the family trait into the next generation."

Ringing silence greeted the words. The Dark Lord coldly observed Ron Weasley's body language through narrowed eyes: the clenched fists, the muscle in the neck, the stupid expression…

"I once had an apprentice… a young boy. He ought to be approximately your age now," Voldemort said. "He too was mouthy, inconceivably impertinent; at times I could barely refrain from punishing him."

Ron seemed to supress a disbelieving snort at the final words.

"He _was_ punished in the end, _severely_, but he deserved it," said Voldemort. "I bestowed lenience, power, attention, glory upon him; he benefited from both my personal tutelage and the title as my ward. He was naive, obstinate, and insolent – but he possessed buried intelligence and promise. He was selected, hand-picked, chosen by _me_ from the other worthy candidates for a position as my protégé."

Ron's eyes bulged in awe; his face twisted into a picture of unconcealed abhorrence.

"What drew me to him was what betrayed him in the end: his ignorance. His ignorance and lack of experience contradicted his raw power and made him stand out," said Voldemort. "He fought against three students his age and students three years older, and won. My ward was – to put it politely – an unpolished diamond."

A bitter, artic smile wafted across the Dark Lord's exterior. "With an intense dislike of the Dark Arts, he was too wild to tame, to polish. His final misconduct was impossible to excuse and I was obliged to discipline him through extreme means.

"He was reprimanded, until he was reduced to nothing more than a weak kitten – until he was an inch away from death, but he managed to escape death's clutches." Voldemort briefly closed his eyes. "The chastisement did not befit the crime."

Ron flinched involuntarily as the Dark Lord elegantly leaned forward and held the yew wand lightly to his collar. He could feel the coldness, radiating through the thin cloth.

"The name of my apprentice was Harry Potter…" Voldemort paused frostily. "Harry was stubborn, always fighting, _always_ fighting me with tooth and nail and retorts. As unsatisfactory as he turned out, there is little chance you – or any other typically fatuous, whingeing, inept child – can compare. Be very vigilant of your steps, Mr Weasley, if I can condemn _him_ to death I will not hesitate to tear you apart _slowly_, limb by limb."

Ron Weasley remained mute, looking shakily up at the potent dark wizard.

"Lucius!" Voldemort ordered. Following the summon, the blond aristocrat stalked in through the doors and knelt in front of the Dark Lord. "Bellatrix is settled?"

"Yes, my Lord," he reassured. "She is resting."

He nodded approvingly, and motioned towards Ron Weasley. "Take the dimwit away. His brain is uncommonly limited."

"Naturally, my Lord," said Lucius. He gript Ron Weasley's arms in an unbreakable hold and dragged him out of the room, leaving the Dark Lord entirely alone in the gloom of the room.

Lord Voldemort stood there, an artic expression on his face as he contemplated. For the first time in five whole years, conflicting emotions pirouetted through his dark, ingenious mind. He felt nothing but a deep black hatred for Harry Potter, the wretched, ignorant boy, who had unconsciously drawn a fatal wound through his conquest…he deserved a fate worse than death.

And yet…Voldemort was entertaining ideas of keeping Harry alive if the wayward boy was captured. Harry Potter, now sixteen years of age, _was_ a rare find; Ronald Weasley, a typical example of the average young wizard, did not hold candle to Harry's abilities. The regular wizard teens were pathetically mediocre, lacking in both mental and magical capacity.

It would not be a sparing act of mercy, no; it would be a prolonging of pain, a removal of freedom and free will. Harry could serve his part well as a slave, a prisoner, or even a shamed apprentice. It would fit Voldemort's purposes –

_No_, it would _not_ do. He would _not_ grant the aggravating child an _ounce_ of compassion or forgiveness. Potter was no longer his apprentice; he'd been stripped of the title by the Dark Lord himself, after having freed Dumbledore.

Voldemort himself was an artful conspirator, deceiving and betraying where it suited his benefits. However, this was very first time he had been double crossed without prior notice; the very first time the Dark Lord had been stabbed in the back where it _hurt most_. And by _Harry_, by his own ward, to whom he had offered eternal power, fame, and tutelage.

A remote, uncaring logic blasted away the disturbing clouds in Lord Voldemort's mind, leaving him in no doubt. Potter deserved no mercy.

—0O0—

"Gellert," Dumbledore wheezed softly, supporting the injured dark wizard into a flowered armchair in his office, "are you quite alright?"

"Yes," Grindelwald replied, in a low voice. "Everything went according to plan. Even this…" He gestured at the deep, bloodied wound in his chest. "Voldemort deliberately aimed for the right side, rather than the left."

"He had to," Dumbledore said, with a faint smile, "he had to." With his old, gnarled hand, he pressed a sterilised towel to Grindelwald's chest. When he drew back, the towel was soaked thoroughly with blood.

"More than half of the children were taken," said Grindelwald, leaning back. "He wished to repay you for your contribution towards the children of his followers."

"Of course he did." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "Tom had always been horrendously vindictive, even when he was Head Boy under my watch."

"Reminds me of us when we were young," Grindelwald remarked. "Voldemort will be pleased to know the Slytherins are incurable, even if I do admire their characteristics. Young Mr Malfoy, Mr Zabini, Mr Khan, Mr Crabbe are nothing except trouble. One would think that, with your brain-washing talents, they would be gushing out your praises after five years, Albus."

"You overestimate me, Gellert," Dumbledore commented, as he handed his old friend a potion. "I am not as nearly persuasive as I'd like to be. Even Minerva is beginning to doubt my judgement."

"That is expected. She has tolerated me for half a decade long."

"They have their misgivings about my trust and alliance with you, Gellert," said Dumbledore. "They believe you to be cruel, cold and every bit as dangerous as Lord Voldemort. In turn, they distrust my confidence in you."

"I am cruel, Albus, and I can easily match Voldemort's heartlessness. I have no qualms regarding sacrificing innocents for my own profit."

Professor Dumbledore did not even bat an eyelid. "You are what you are, Gellert, but we will show the public precisely how harshly they misjudged you. By next week, it will be up on all the headlines, by next week, the world will realise you risked your life in an attempt to protect the children."

Grindelwald gave a throaty chuckle. "Albus, you old fox, my life was never in danger. Voldemort would never have killed me, because you would have apparated directly to confront him. At the price of his own public image, he was forced to injure me."

Dumbledore looked fondly up at his partner. "Voldemort had to injure you, or risk you injuring him. On the other hand, if he had tried murdered you, I would have apparated there in less than a second. Let's celebrate the triumph we have sustained tonight."


	5. Self-preservation

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, and never will. **

**For a few of you this chapter will be the end of your tolerance for the plot, but this is how it has to be. I apologise for any disappointment.**

**On a lighter note, in regards to Hermionegranger026's comment, I was just wondering whether you prefer longer chapters (like what I wrote before) or shorter chapters (like I am writing now). Sadly, I have limited writing time - with all the new school subjects and homework - and I want to know whether you like waiting longer for a longer chapter or waiting a shorter amount of time for a shorter chapter.**

**Thanks! **

* * *

Draco Malfoy arrogantly strutted through the halls of Hogwarts. With his pale nose sticking upwards and a sneer fixated permanently, he looked without a care in the world.  
But, in reality, he had many concerns on his mind.

For one, he had not seen either of his parents in five years – thanks to the prestigious headmaster.

Naturally, he had launched many escape attempts in the past, but none of them had worked…or he would not have still been stuck in the hellhole of a school. His only comfort was that there were many Slytherins in the same predicament as he; glued to the confines of Hogwarts like flies fastened to jam.

Blaise Zabini had been particularly pleasant company, hatching plans with him in the darkness of the dormitory while his two goons, Crabbe and Goyle, snored like hogs in their respective beds.

Draco knew that all of them, children of Death Eaters, suffered emotionally from Dumbledore's restraints. Everybody needed parents. It was cruelty beyond cruelty to separate them from their maternal securities.

First, it had been anger, frustration and disbelief. Then, the disbelief faded to be replaced by depression, a grim acceptance, a thirst for revenge and an urge to rip Dumbledore's ancient head apart.

The ironic thing was, Draco thought, that Dumbledore had never laid a hand on them. Being Slytherins, he and the other _victims_ logically caused as much havoc in the school as imaginable. Somehow, they always ended up behind Dumbledore's mahogany desk being offered a lemon drop while they glared into his infuriatingly twinkly blue orbs.

Oh, they were given measly detentions, yes, but never any _real_ punishments as Draco had seen Bellatrix and Carrow dole out to students during the Dark Lord's reign. It set his teeth on edge. It wasn't that he was a masochist on any account – it was just that he was fed up with the caring way the old codger acted.

Once, Draco could remember, a long time ago when he had cared about his grades; whether he received Exceeds Expectations or below. But that seemed like a century ago. Now, his academic scores had dipped until they couldn't sink any lower; only his Defence against the Dark Arts had persisted.

In the years, Draco had also become skilled at tolerating a darker presence in the castle, that of Grindelwald's. Despite his prior admiration of the wizard's accomplishments, he quickly learned to loathe the man, after seeing for himself exactly how much on the same page Grindelwald appeared to be with Dumbledore. It was so appalling that it wasn't even funny.

Every week, Dumbledore would stand in front of the hall and announce the progress they had made out in the wizarding world. At times, the man's eyes would flit to the Slytherin students searchingly, as if seeking something. Draco suspected he was applying a certain type of slow mental torture on them; to let them realise the failures of the Dark Lord while having no power to act out anything.

They were caged birds. They were born to be free.

Draco had developed a bitter awe for the elegant style with which Dumbledore handled things; never leaving loopholes, always with that smiling facade – he had to be nearly ingenious as Lord Voldemort himself. Draco hated him.

But that didn't mean everybody did. It was sickening to watch the entire school hang onto every word that passed the old wizard's lips. Utterly revolting. They idolised him. It seemed as if Dumbledore had a certain attraction, a magnetism that _drew_ people to him.

Perhaps, out of all the professors, McGonagall was the most clear-headed. Draco could often sense a hostility shrouding her, an icy glaze over her eyes that he did not recall being there before and an occasional flare of the nostrils when she spoke to the apathetic Grindelwald.  
She treated Dumbledore with the former respect, but almost always with a guarded tone, nowadays.

Once, a few months ago, Draco had seen McGonagall confront Dumbledore in a deserted corridor about his 'unnecessary measures' and 'growing blindness'. It seemed to pain the witch to make such a statement, but Dumbledore had easily laughed it off, gently reminding her of their successes.

Ever since Dumbledore's declaration regarding _their_ restraints as children of Death Eaters, McGonagall had developed a certain understanding for them; often giving them leniency where it should not have been deserved.

One thing was for sure: she had never been kinder with the Slytherins as she now was, Draco had to grudgingly admit. More than on one occasion had the Gryffindor Head cornered him in an empty classroom and questioned him on his well-being. She had even invited him to tea in her office a few times.

Although Draco had refused every time. Perhaps one day, as impossible as it seemed, he would accept the invitation that nobody else extended to him.

Come hell or high waters, Draco would find a way to free himself and the others. He _would_.

—0O0—

"Tom," Harry called loudly at the tightly closed bedroom door, "breakfast's ready in the kitchen." He straightened his collar. "I'm going out and will be back in a couple of hours…when you are in a better mood," he added pointedly.

Seemingly, the young Dark Lord had been less than thrilled to be woken up at dawn break and Harry had received little warning before he was blasted unceremoniously out of Tom's room with a flick of the hand.

Harry briskly inspected his reflection in the mirror and reined his dishevelled robes under control. With his raven hair smoothed back, dazzlingly vivid green eyes, and a charming smile readily springing to his lips, there were few who could find sensible faults with his appearance.

He looked a different person altogether from the child he had been; without the awkward glasses, untameable mane and unpolished manner, Harry did appear to be an entire different wizard. With his poise, no one could possibly guess the ordeal he had endured the night before.

He seized his cloak from the coat hanger and carefully tucked his wand into his sleeve – better safe than sorry – and stepped out of the house into the bracingly crisp winter air. Locking the door firmly behind him, he twirled on the spot and apparated directly to Diagon Alley.

When he reappeared amongst the crowd of early risers, Harry had gained himself blond hair in replacement of black. He was Ralph Ashwood.

Although it was in the early hours of the morning, there were plenty of witches and wizards out and roaming the shopping streets. It was the perfect opportunity.

Harry drew his wand from under his sleeve and fired a spell into the sky. The deafening gunshot that followed ensued he now had the attention of all the shoppers of Diagon Alley.

As startled heads turned in his direction, Harry stood his ground, steadily ignoring the blatant glares he obtained. "Good morning," he said lightly. "To those whose morning I rudely disrupted, I apologise."

There were a few disgruntled mutters in the crowd, and Harry waited patiently for them to settle before proceeding again. "I'd like to deliver a quick speech, for those of you who have the time to spare, regarding our most foremost political event."

"What does a child know about politics?" A wizard sneered at Harry, encouraged by snickers from those surrounding him.

Harry was unperturbed. "I have lived with an outstanding politician for half a decade. Pardon me if my snippets of knowledge do not stand the test against yours." He gave a polite smile. "At present, I'm sure you'll agree, we are all troubled at the manner Dumbledore's consular battle with Lord Voldemort has developed into Death Eater raids."

"Those of you who choose not to mingle in politics cannot simply disregard this; Voldemort's acts of violence very much concern all of you. Imagine coming home from work only to discover a Dark Mark hovering above your house. Imagine finding your husbands, or wives, and children dead. Tell me…"

Harry's voice, captivating with a charismatic lilt, carried itself over the disconcerted heads. "Tell me what you will do. Will you take your own life on the spot from grief, stricken you did not protect your family? Will you hug the lifeless body of your child? Will you swear to take revenge on Voldemort? Nothing, _nothing_ can bring them back."

"There are _no_ set rules you can live by. You cannot say to yourself, 'If I follow these rules I will be safe.' It is only a matter of time, a matter of coincidence, whether you die." The chill of the words pummelled into the atmosphere.

"Lord Voldemort is not an angel of mercy; he spares no one. Whether it is a child, a woman, a politician, a Death Eater, or even his own apprentice, if they make _one_ mistake that displeases him the common penalty is torture followed by death." Harry smiled bitterly.

"The intelligent action to take perhaps _is_ to remain neutral, taking no sides and drawing no attention to yourselves. That way, you will last longer in this twisted society…" he paused. "However, remember your life is insecure when your silent neighbours, who have taken the same neutral stance as you, are killed. If you are content with leaving the safety of your family to fate, then by all means, do so."

"I am a premature wizard but I will not take the diplomatic approach. I will openly fight Voldemort, knowing he may send his followers after me, but then I will also know that I have made a difference."

"Thank you for your time." Harry left his position and slipped through the gathered group, knowing the abrupt ending had astonished a great number of people. He also knew there was a wizard following him.

Once he had escaped the mass, Harry twisted around, his hand plunging into his robes, and pointed his wand in line to the man's throat. And thus, got the shock of his life.

"Ralph Ashwood, young man, that was a most splendid speech," Dumbledore said, blue eyes twinkling warmly at him. "You have a marvellous talent. Would you lift your disguise for an old man?"

For the first time, Harry found his tongue knotted and himself rendered speechless. "Professor Dumbledore... Certainly! I'm _so_ sorry, you caught me off guard." He quickly withdrew his wand from the headmaster's neck, and cautiously allowed his blond hair to darken.

Dumbledore peeked at him in fascination. "Young man, I believe I have seen you somewhere before. In Diagon Alley, perhaps?"

"In Nurmengard," Harry answered, finally regaining his composure. He was elated, elated Dumbledore remembered him. "I'm Harry Potter."

Dumbledore's eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah, the _excellent_ lad. Lord Voldemort's young apprentice, am I right?" He extended his hand, and Harry grasped it, grimacing at the title.

"Not anymore," Harry responded quietly. "I wouldn't dare to mouth off the Dark Lord if I was still under his control. Thankfully, I am not." He gave a wry grin.

"I apologise, Harry, for my inconsideration," Dumbledore said. "I didn't realise you managed to escape, but it is, indeed, wonderful news. I suppose Lord Voldemort did not find out you freed us, dear boy?"

Harry blinked, debating over whether to inform Dumbledore of the truth. "I…he did." Dumbledore's chest heaved, and suddenly he was looking down at Harry with such sadness.

"The Dark Lord is sick, twisted, beyond mortal belief. Forgive me, Harry, I should have taken you with me. I owe you so much. Why don't I treat us to breakfast at the Three Broomsticks while you tell me all about your experiences?"

"That would be wonderful," Harry smiled. He followed Dumbledore through the streets as if they were old friends. He could hardly believe his good fortune – meeting the old headmaster and now breakfasting with him.

Dumbledore ordered generously when they arrived, acting courteously towards Harry, refilling his glass each time it started to become empty. "Was Voldemort harsh on you, Harry, when he found out?"

"Whenever is he not?" Harry joked. "He does have a reputation to keep up, after all."

"Yes, I suppose he does."

"What happened after you left, Professor?" Harry asked. "Voldemort was pursuing you."

"He _was_ tracking us," Dumbledore affirmed, "but we had a few hours' head start. When it seemed like he was closing in, we split up. Eventually, we threw him off and travelled to Hogwarts."

"Sounds like quite the adventure."

"Quite," said the old wizard. "Nowhere as rousing as yours must have been. How did you escape?"

If he did not know better, Harry would have thought the man was fond of asking difficult questions; he couldn't possibly reveal Tom Riddle's contribution to his existence. "I do not know, Professor," Harry said innocently. "It's all very hazy."

Albus Dumbledore's eyes seemed to narrow for the slightest of moments before they blinked compassionately and a heartfelt smile spread across his rosy cheeks. "Understandable, Harry, you must have been traumatised."

Harry returned the smile amiably and deftly switched subjects. "Congratulations on your progress, Professor. At this pace, you will defeat Voldemort in no time."

"I am grateful for your faith, Harry," Dumbledore said modestly. "I wish I can predict the precise time, but Lord Voldemort remains to be one of the most unpredictable wizards I have ever personally encountered."

"It is magnificent, the number of supporters you have…" Harry paused momentarily. "Sir, how is Hogwarts?"

"Brilliant, as are her students," Dumbledore replied. "They are a talented batch, extremely bright; they will do the new generation credit."

Harry noted with amusement the headmaster's selection of collective nouns; 'batch' hinted severely at cookies. "Is Professor McGonagall fine?"

"Her health is superb."

"And is Hermione alright…if you know her?"

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore beamed. "She is an exceptional witch, extraordinarily gifted too. She is all the rage in Ravenclaw, a Prefect and widely respected for her academics."

That was all he needed to know. "It's good they are all doing well," he said. "Thank you, Professor."

"I can offer _you_ a place at Hogwarts, if you like, as your schooling is still unfinished. Hogwarts gives scholarships to those who excel. I wager you can win yourself one, seeing as you have once been tutored by Voldemort himself."

Harry suppressed his displeasure at the final part of the sentence, and thought longing about the invitation. Thinking of Tom's furious face when he broke the news to him, Harry relented and graciously declined.

"It will be an honour, Professor, but I don't believe I'll be able to go."

Dumbledore furrowed his eyebrows. "Why ever not, Harry? Without doubt, your current lifestyle must be far from perfection if you lack money… unless you are living with someone capable?"

Reluctantly, Harry inclined his head. "He is an old student of yours, and is admirably proficient."

"I'd love to meet him. If I may intrude, what is his name?"

If it had been anybody else but for Dumbledore sitting opposite him, Harry would have raised a cold eyebrow and effortlessly told a flawless lie. _Bradley Jeffrey. Kevin Abbott. Steven White. _False names instinctively soared into his mind – but Harry could not bring himself tell the falsehood, perhaps due to his unhealthy dose of deification for Dumbledore.

"Sorry, sir, but I suspect my friend will blame me if I betray his name to even my most respected teachers," Harry answered apologetically, but firmly.

He watched the stiffening of Dumbledore's lips, the faintest sign of disapproval. He tensed when the electric blue eyes searchingly met his own. It reminded him chillingly of Voldemort.

"I understand," Dumbledore said, finally. "I felt the same way when I was younger, when I was roving free with Gellert."

Harry wondered whether the comparison to Dumbledore's friendship with Grindelwald held a special significance.

"You display such fierce loyalty to your friends and loved ones," the headmaster commented gently. "It is a virtue, Harry, which you possess. I prize love and loyalty beyond all else."

"You're too kind, sir."

"What I value most," Dumbledore continued, "is pure, powerful, undiluted love. It is the sort of love that drives darkness to the edge of our society; it is what propels us to make the noblest sacrifices for our loved ones."

"I agree, Professor."

"Would you die to protect those you love; would you give up your life for a good cause, Harry, for the world, for a dangerous monster to vanish?"

"Yes," Harry replied, feeling ill at ease. He had no inkling what the professor was attempting to get at. "I would."

"Very good, Harry, I like that…" Dumbledore reached across the table for his hands, a curving smile etched on his face. "You are the core to our success, the crux, the dominating factor. You are Voldemort's Horcrux."

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. _It was as if the entire world had halted right before Harry's very eyes. All was silent with the exception of the ticking of the grandfather clock in the store. Coldness swept through his veins, freezing his blood. Harry paled. He jerked back, tearing his hands out of Dumbledore's grasp.

"I do not know what you are talking about, Professor," Harry said, softly.

"I think you do, Harry."

"I'd ask how you obtained such a personal piece of information," Harry's voice resembled the iciness of the artic wind, "but I think I have the answer."

"I used Legilimency," Dumbledore said.

"I know." Harry's fingers danced to his temple. "I judged you incorrectly, Dumbledore – I never thought you could be so _low_."

"Now, Harry, I am not what you ought to call low. I serve the greater good, and I urge you to do the same. As you know, the effect of Horcruxes is to maintain immortality. The Dark Lord can only be defeated when and if his Horcruxes are destroyed."

"Oh, I understand _completely_," Harry said. "You are asking me to destroy myself." He hoped – futilely, he knew – that Dumbledore would correct him, telling him that he had misunderstood Dumbledore's intention.

"Harry," Dumbledore said sadly, "you misunderstand my intention. There is absolutely no need for you to destroy yourself. You are an innocent, a clever young boy who will be greatly missed if lost, but you need not take your own life. All you have to do is give me permission."

Harry stared. A great shudder ripped its way down his spinal cord. Tom had been more than correct, however, it was not the ideal way for him to realise.

"I understand this has come as a shock, but earlier, you answered you will give up your right to live if only it could protect those you love."

"I would… as a last resort and upon the guarantee that they actually will be protected," Harry sneered. "I refuse to die as a worthless pawn, discarded in a game of chess."

Dumbledore's face softened. "I _promise_ you, Harry, that they will be protected. Voldemort _will_ be defeated."

"You do not need me to defeat him; you need me to _kill_ him."

"Don't you understand, Harry? You mustn't allow him to threaten the lives of innocents. This is for the greater good."

Harry's face became blank; his eyes emotionless. "I understand," he said slowly, "that I need to die."

"Good boy," Dumbledore sighed sorrowfully. He was genuine. "I truly regret this, Harry, I do. I very much wish to take your place… I promise, it will be entirely painless. If you have any last requests, I'll help you carry them –"

Harry had sprung out of his seat unexpectedly and flashed his wand. All the glassware in the store instantly shattered, rows and rows of wineglasses. The beautiful, vast chandelier that hung elegantly at the centre of the plummeted to the ground, the crystals catching the sunlight a second before they were smashed. Harry ducked under it, his robes billowing, as he charged outside with Dumbledore rushing after him.

Harry felt Dumbledore closing in, felt a hand groping for his robes, and then…he apparated. 

* * *

**Reviews make an author happy! Please PM me or review if you have any concerns.**


	6. Flight

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, and neither is Lord Voldemort or Tom Genius Riddle.**

**I'm so sorry for the late update! I was so busy with test revision. Did you know I had five tests this week. Anyway, I truly do hope you will continue to bear with me.**

**I have decided to write various lengths of chapters - maybe leave the length flexible to how much information one chapter has to contain. As you can see this is a rather short one...but then again, I'd feel bad about making you wait any longer.**

* * *

_"Don't you understand, Harry? You mustn't allow him to threaten the lives of innocents. This is for the greater good."_

_Harry's face became blank; his eyes emotionless. "I understand," he said slowly, "that I need to die."_

_"Good boy," Dumbledore sighed sorrowfully. He was genuine. "I truly regret this, Harry, I do. I very much wish to take your place… I promise, it will be entirely painless. If you have any last requests, I'll help you carry them –" _

_Harry had sprung out of his seat unexpectedly and flashed his wand. All the glassware in the store instantly shattered, rows and rows of wineglasses. The beautiful, vast chandelier that hung elegantly at the centre of the plummeted to the ground, the crystals catching the sunlight a second before they were smashed. Harry ducked under it, his robes billowing, as he charged outside with Dumbledore rushing after him._

_Harry felt Dumbledore closing in, felt a hand groping for his robes, and then…he apparated. _

He tumbled onto the cobblestone street sideways, skidded, and landed on his knees. It had been close, _too_ close for his comfort. He could almost still feel the slight shift of air pressure as Dumbledore groped for him and, thankfully, missed.

Harry could feel the adrenaline pumping through his, his blood burning red. His mind could barely overcome, let alone accept, what had transpired. He was stunned, traumatised.

Dumbledore had asked him to sign his own death warrant like a little sacrificial lamb – and for what? To kill Voldemort. No – to _destroy_ the dark wizard completely, every sliver of his soul – starting with Harry.

His mind was a haze of confusion, and he was in a state of mental agony. Dumbledore, the one he had respected from the very start, had proposed an end for him in the name of the Greater Good. Rubbish.

A bitter sneer wrung its way on to his face. He had been a fool, a guilelessly trusting imbecile. In reality, he had only met Dumbledore once and yet he felt as if he had known the man for years… Harry's fist connected with the cobblestones out of sheer anger. He should have believed Tom.

Damn Dumbledore to the fiery depth of hell. Harry felt like he was eleven again, irresponsible and thick as a stick; a rash boy drooling after his favourite hero. Fury swept like a hurricane through him, striking at his very heart.

His fist lashed out at the cobblestones again. How enjoyable it would be if he was truly pummelling the old man.

Harry was almost in awe of the quick transformation of adoration to a twisted hatred. He loathed Dumbledore. Did the timeworn fraud expect him to just simply give up his life? Did Dumbledore think he had no sense of self-preservation, whatsoever?

Harry snarled. He could hardly imagine what might have happened if he had reacted a few seconds later. A dead fox, lifeless and benumbed, vulnerable.

Logically, Dumbledore would already be attempting to track him down. If Harry had to guess, it would not take the old man long to arrive on their doorstep, politely asking for a boy by the name of Harry Potter. That left him only one option: he had to inform Tom.

Harry slowly lifted himself off the ground and carefully approached the house he shared with the older Slytherin. Tom would not be pleased.

Holding his breath unconsciously, Harry knocked.

Expectedly, Tom flung the door open the next very instant, his face twisted into an expression of fury. "You went _again_, without telling me!" he snarled. "Is it really so difficult to leave a message?"

Harry listened mutely, not bothering to correct his housemate in that he _had_ told him before he left the house. If Tom was raging now, he would be on the warpath later.

"Diagon Alley, am I right?" Tom said, sarcastically. "To deliver another one of your _charming_ speeches."

"I'm sorry," came the quiet reply.

"Perhaps you overlooked the numerous less desirable possibilities in order to relish your chance of fame?" Tom raised one eyebrow challengingly. "Suppose you let slip a shard of information that isn't public knowledge? Suppose Voldemort captures you on the spot for treachery and realises you are his beloved, long-lost apprentice?"

"I already said I was sorry," Harry repeated evenly.

"Oh? I apologise, I did not quite catch that," Riddle mocked. "I have a suggestion for you: allow Voldemort to torture you half to death…and _then_ write me a letter of apology for all those years I was forced to babysit you."

"I was cautious," Harry said, grimacing at the lie even as he spoke. "Voldemort would not have been able to –"

"So you think."

"I _do_ think."

"Then," Tom hissed menacingly, "do not say I did not warn you."

"Did you see the breakfast laid out on the table?" Harry said. He was unsure of the reason he asked; he simply knew the moment the words left his mouth that it had not been the perfect timing.

Harry saw the eyes of the teenage Dark Lord harden, and in an effort to divert his anger, Harry amended, "I hope you've eaten, because there is something I need to tell you."

Tom Riddle was undoubtedly a sight, a sight which Harry suspected he was the only person in existence who saw him in.

Riddle's normally refined hair was lying in untidy, tangled curls, his prim white shirt was un-tucked, and he had not appeared to have straightened his collar.

It was that very moment that Harry realised Tom had been worried.

"You have disobeyed me time and time again," said Tom. "Give me one reason why I should listen to _you_."

"Please, Tom," Harry said, "be reasonable. I guarantee it is information you will want to know. You can prove me otherwise _after_ you listen, if you want."

"I hope it can wait," was the cold reply, "because I need to attend a political meeting in the Ministry. I will be back at midnight. I do encourage you to entertain yourself before then."

"It isn't that I wish to be melodramatic…" Harry spoke sharply, "but would the fact that I will be gone and most likely dead by tomorrow be reason enough for you to stay?"

It was as if something clicked. Tom glanced at Harry probingly as though truly seeing him for the first time that morning. "What happened to your hand?"

Harry followed Tom's gaze and saw the blood dripping freely from his hand onto the carpet. "I hit the cobblestones."

Tom cursed unabashedly. "You mean to say you hit the cobblestone _street?" _

"Yes. I need –"

"_Episkey_," Tom interrupted abruptly.

Holding up his fixed hand in a silencing gesture, Harry said, "Thanks, but I had it sorted. I _need_ to talk to you about Dumbledore."

The older Slytherin's lips set in a twisted sneer. "What about the old codger?"

"You were right about him."

Tom's penetrating eyes burned into his own in a glare, as he demanded, "Tell me just what occurred in Diagon Alley and leave out no details, or I will make you regret it."

By the time Harry was finished with his explanation, Tom looked like he was about to breathe fire.

"You are a _fool_," Tom spat, "an irredeemable fool. Not only did you let slip your real identity but you also allowed him to flip through your mind like the pages of a book, _unnoticed_."

"I do not know Occlumency." Harry dauntingly met Tom's eyes. "You were the one who gave up on teaching me, if you recall."

"You remained entirely ignorant until he voluntarily showed you his true colours," snarled Tom. "You idolised him as your white saviour up until he literally _told_ you to sacrifice yourself. I wonder how pathetic one can get."

"It was a mistake, a childish misconception, one that I should never have made," Harry said. "Dumbledore, the manipulating gaffer… Look, I know my own slipup."

"The Dark Lord would be ashamed to discover the boy who unintentionally thwarted him died at the hands of Albus Dumbledore through momentary blindness," the young Dark Lord continued brutally. "I say you would have deserved to die…"

Harry stared at Tom in livid shock, and would have put in a few decorative words of his own, ones that would have given McGonagall a heart attack had she heard them, if it wasn't for the sentence that followed.

"…if you had not managed to evade capture," Tom finished. "Imagine if I had not been here to correct you…" The appalled curl of the lip was sufficient to send Harry mental pictures. "…you would have turned out a bloody Gryffindor through and through."

"Maybe this isn't the time –"

"I am _pleasantly_ surprised you did not agree to Dumbledore's request and kill yourself on the spot," Tom scorned, merciless in his taunts. "I would have thought you'd leap at any of his proposals, perhaps even one of marriage."

"If I wanted your opinion I would ask for it."

"You are proof that evolution _can_ go in reverse, useless as a screen door on a submarine," snapped Riddle. "Thanks to you, we are unsure of how much Dumbledore knows. He may already be aware of the fact that I too am a Horcrux."

"Are you planning on doing anything about that?" Harry asked, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. Tom Riddle

"I am tempted to flay you alive and hang your skin up in the sun to dry. However, I predict we only have from now to nightfall to find ourselves a place to stay," said Tom satirically. "As a result, the flaying must be postponed."

Tom's ironic sense of humour sprung up at the oddest of times.

"Pack your trunks, Harry. We are leaving in one hour."

And leave they did. This time, Tom was determined to leave Penny behind. Despite Harry's protests, and above Penny's wails of despair, Tom freed the house elf and sent her on her way.

After that, Tom literally wrenched Harry's packed trunk out of his hands and transfigured it into the size of a chess piece before folding it into his robe pocket.

Harry watched, stunned, as Riddle swept like an incensed hurricane through the house, chanting various spells as clusters of items flew off the walls and from the bedrooms into a neat, leather suitcase he held.

"Spend it considerately," Tom Riddle sneered, as he dropped a money sack into Harry's hand. "Forty galleons, I do not trust you with any more. Regard it as pocket money."

Suddenly, Harry was tempted to hex the infuriating Slytherin when his back was turned.

By the time of their departure, the walls of the residence were eerily bare, a television stood in the living room, a radio perched by Harry's bedside, and a toaster was positioned neatly on the kitchen table.  
Tom had disguised all hints of existing wizards by transforming the lonely estate into one that smelled strongly of Muggles.

Tom briskly ordered him to change into a Muggle business suit.

It was then and there that Harry wondered whether they were ever returning. He glanced at the hanging clock. Eleven – in the morning.

However, it appeared there was no extra time for contemplating when Riddle forcefully yanked him outside by his sleeve.

"Dawdle, Harry, if you wish for Dumbledore to capture you," Tom said coldly. "It will certainly be fitting."

Harry laughed bitterly. "I agree."

"While I try my hardest to hide you from the two mightiest forces in existence, you waltz in front of them. Perhaps you truly have a death wish."

"I assure you I do not," Harry said. "If you think otherwise… we can always go our separate ways." He shrugged, in an elegant imitation of Tom.

Tom raised an imperious eyebrow. "Come," he commanded. Harry joined him.

Together, unaware of the picture they made, the two wizards walked into the noon horizon, shoulder to shoulder.

If anyone had seen them, they would have suspected they were brothers in blood. It was the same confident pace, same pristine black suits; same intelligent glint in the eyes… the only true difference was in height.

It looked almost like the two were moulded from each other.

—0O0—

Amid silence and sultry heat, Harry trudged onwards at a painfully sluggish speed behind Tom.

Late afternoon shadows stretched long and thin while the afternoon sky was painted by brushstrokes of orange, gold, red, blue and a tinge of violet. A soft breeze whistled through the apple trees, easing the humid, sizzling air.

For a while.

Raising a hand to sweep the sweat curdled bangs out of his eyes, Harry heaved a deep sigh. Despite all his snide remarks, Tom fared no better.

Being a master of magic, Tom was, by no means, unfit but he was a long distance from looking his best. Tie done loosely and sleeves unbuttoned, Harry noted with amusement. It appeared the Slytherin was more bothered by the torturous walk under the high temperature than he let on.

But then again, Harry was the same.

Aside from the occasional water breaks, Tom had not allowed either of them the time to relieve themselves. Instead, he had chosen to rush ahead like a madman on a mission of life and death…which Harry supposed was true.

He knew he could have arrived at the destination, a five star Muggle hotel, hours ago if it hadn't been for Tom's disastrous plan.

Tom had been troubled about Dumbledore tracking their magic and had proposed a non-magical way of transportation: by foot.

If they had lived elsewhere, a place less rural, perhaps they could have caught a bus – but as it was, they were resorted to hiking all day to reach a bus stop.

Harry closed his eyes in palpable luxury as he boarded the bus with Tom, savouring in the refreshing air conditioning.

They were one of the few passengers.

Along the lengthy journey, Harry found himself drawn to the driver. Indeed, the man was rather noticeable, although not in a particularly attractive way.

The man's bronzed, harshly lined, weathered face did not prepare Harry for the diversely coloured eyes. One was an earthly brown colour…and the other was an unnatural hue of violet.

Through the rear view mirror, the man seemed to have noticed Harry's relentless staring and a crooked smile emerged. "Come here, boy," he called gruffly, making a sharp gesture at the empty seat behind him. "Come keep me company. I'm sure your little friend won't mind."

After sending a pointed look at Tom, who ignored him coolly, Harry obeyed the driver.

As soon as he sat, the man turned his unnerving eyes on him. "Caught you staring at me eyes. Thought you were a curious thing." He moved one eye to focus on the road ahead while the other stripped Harry down.

"Well, the purple eye _is_ quite lovely," Harry said. "I wouldn't mind having one myself." His light, conversational tone immediately seized the driver's attention again.

"It's not biological. It's fake," the man replied curtly. "Not so easy to tell, is it? I lost my eye in an incident and had it replaced. Must say my new one serves its use better."

"I didn't realise," Harry said, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." The man gave another twisted smile. "I'm not. And besides, it's _my_ eye." He chuckled quietly.

"I suppose you are right." Harry accompanied his nonchalant shrug with a disarming smile.

"Who's your friend over there?" The man tilted his head. "He doesn't seem like the happiest little boy in town. Surely he isn't _that_ angry I claimed his friend?"

"Uh, no. I think he's angry _at_ _me_ for ruining his day."

Four hours later, heavy into the twilight, the transport came to a rumbling stop in front of one of the most glamorous hotels in Staffordshire Moorlands, a government district of England. The sign '_Dukes River Hotel_' loomed like a dazzling mountain over Harry's head.

"Of all the discreet cottages in the area, you pick one of the most sophisticated, elegant – and not to mention _massively_ _expensive_ – hotels?" Harry hissed. "Do you _want_ to draw attention to ourselves?"

"Money exists to serve us," Tom said, stepping through the colossal glass doors. Harry did his best not to stare at the crystal chandeliers and the marble statues.

At the front desk, Tom authoritatively motioned at the receptionist. "I will book the élite suites for four nights, and a private dinner room armed with an exclusive kitchen. Can your manager spare any chefs?"

Harry took pity on the uncomfortable man who looked older than Tom by a hair's breadth. "But we can do without."

"I…I think we can spare one: our Head Chef, Clark. Will he be good enough?"

"Is he any good?" Tom asked, with a mocking hint.

"Yes," the receptionist said. "May I help you in any other way?"

"Is there any entertainment on tonight?" Tom said. "A performance? A dance troupe, perhaps?"

"There is a ballet team dancing _Swan Lake,_ and there's also a superb magic show." The receptionist's voice abruptly shifted. "And then the _Black Sabbath_ is also active."

"What is the _Black Sabbath?_" Harry inquired.

The receptionist made a disbelieving sound at the back of his throat. "_Black Sabbath_," he repeated, tone becoming shriller with barely contained excitement. "Where have you _been_ in the last decade?"

"Nowhere," Tom answered coldly.

"Um…" he coughed. "Excuse me, I got carried away."

Harry watched as the man struggled to regain his professionalism. "_Black Sabbath_ is a rock band. Heavy metal. Extremely gifted. Surely you've heard their songs: _Children of the Grave_, _Iron Man, Heaven and Hell –"_

"We'll book in for that," Harry said. "It's your recommendation?"

The man beamed brilliantly as his fingers flew all over the keyboard. "It'll only take a minute. The tickets can be bought directly through the computer –"

"I'm afraid we will not be booking in for the _rock_ concert," Tom interrupted taciturnly. There was a certain distaste that spoke volumes in his tone. "Rock music does not sit well with me. We shall have to settle for the magic show."

Nothing Harry said after that could make Tom change his mind. Tragic as it was, Harry supposed rock music did not 'sit well' with any Dark Lord.

* * *

**Has anyone heard of the Black Sabbath? Would anyone agree that visiting a rock concert would ****_entirely ruin _****a Dark Lord's reputation? :p**

**Reviews have the same effect on me as chicken chips do!**


	7. Fight & Flight

**Disclaimer: I no own Harry Potter!**

**I'm terribly sorry about the long wait, but something went wrong with my fan fiction account in the last two weeks. I hope it never has to happen again.**

**I really appreciate reviews, and I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter!**

* * *

Reclining on the refreshingly cold leather wingchair, Harry fingered a delicate glass of tantalizing German wine. Opposite him rested Tom Riddle, his skin pale and flawless, with his legs thrown over the armrest and his chilling blue eyes half closed in a rare display of ease.

Harry could not tear his gaze from the older boy. For a split second, he struggled to find visible differences between a relaxed young man with his guard down and the lounging young Slytherin heir who would one day grow into Lord Voldemort.

It seemed out of the question that Tom would ever, in front of _anyone_, allow his guard to slip. If Harry hadn't lived alongside the male, he would have regarded the very concept as preposterous.

"Are you asleep?" Harry asked quietly, taking a careful sip of his translucent liquor.

The Slytherin nonchalantly switched to a sitting position. "I do not think so, no." He stood, and walked around the seats, so that the back of Harry's head was facing him. "Especially not with you in the room. I do not trust you not to burn it to ashes.

"Where in Merlin's beard did you get so much money?" Harry said. "You are bathing, no, _swimming_ in it."

"There is no need for me to pursue money, prosperity seeks me. Greatness and power attracts wealth systematically like magnet draws nickel. Those who hold power and influence in the society also hold wealth."

"Your self-flattery is sickening," Harry scoffed. "And not at all subtle."

"That may be…" Tom said smugly. "But it is the truth, pure and whole."

Harry's eyes narrowed. He was all too familiar with Tom's clever methods of sidestepping questions and diverting a particular subject.

"Where _did_ you get so much money? Surely not from _politics?_" He stared at the older Slytherin intensely. "You said you indirectly worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation in the Ministry as an advisor to a Dutch representative."

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the subtle scent of Tom's peppermint breath wafted towards him.

"You have quite the accurate memory. In fact, I still work for the blabbering Dutchman," Tom purred, his enticing voice merely millimetres from Harry's ear. His icy blue eyes met the emerald darkly.

"Unless you work in the Department of Law Enforcement, which caters to Dumbledore's every need, you cannot receive a yearly wage that high," Harry said. "As an advisor to a foreign representative, you earn even less." He set down his wine glass with a _clang_ on the table. "Either you lied to me about your work or you found the money elsewhere."

As Harry watched, Tom's eyes took on a foreboding shade at the outright challenge. "Oh my, since when did you become an expert on salaries?"

"I will not pretend I am an expert, but I do know enough to conclude you are not telling me the full truth."

"And nor is it my responsibility to tell you the full truth," Tom said silkily. "Be glad I am not telling you a full _lie_."

**... **

As dusk was painstakingly swallowed by nightfall, the head chef manoeuvred a trolley into their bedroom.

Harry grimaced at the empty, high-pitched squeak of the wheels as they rolled against the sparkling wooden floor. Perched imperiously beside him, Tom was exhibiting his infamous impassive countenance.

"Dinner is ready, misters," the chef announced brightly, his voice bouncing like a light bulb off Tom's cold frontage and instantly shattering as the young Dark Lord replied in a clipped tone, "Thank you. Now, _please_ do me a favour and get out. Do not forget to close the door behind you."

Harry's jaws dropped. It was rude – even for Tom.

It seemed that the ability to speak was knocked out of the stunned chef, whose scandalised expression did all the talking for him.

"He did not mean that," Harry hurriedly amended. "My friend has an odd temperament. He's –"

"Actually," Tom said callously, "I mean exactly what I say –"

"No, the truth is, he does not," Harry interrupted speedily, halting a furious Tom in the middle of his sentence. He looked apologetically at the chef and spread his hands out in an emphasis of exasperation.

"He's had a bad day, I am sorry, and he is exceedingly volatile at the moment...like a bomb that is about to go off." He gave a rueful grin and rattled off again before Tom could get a word in. "My friend is mentally unstable. You see, the problem is a psychological disorder… he suffers from a severe case of psychopathy."

The chef looked rather disconcerted and affronted.

"It may be true I am a psychopath, but I would personally love to highlight precisely how clear-headed I am," Tom mocked the poor kitchen staff. "Do you happen to sell any Muggles for entertainment purposes? I feel inclined on using one to ease my temper."

The chef looked horrified. "You…you are accusing our hotel of selling drugs?"

Tom sneered. And despite himself, Harry could not help but conceal a smirk. Tom was toying with the bewildered man the same way a cat would a rat.

Tom's witticism had a particularly cutting nature – seeing as the two were speaking about two wholly different things – drugs and non-magical beings.

"I'd recommend medical assistance if you truly are a drug addict. We are a five star hotel – and no, we do not have _cannabis _stores in our kitchen!"

"Then, purely from a _professional_ point of view, would you suggest I find cannabis on the black market?" Tom said.

Harry glared disapprovingly at the older Slytherin. All he received was a wink of acknowledgement from the infuriating wizard.

As he watched the continued exchange, against his better judgement, he found himself with a troubling urge to laugh. The more time he spent with Tom, the more of his warped sense of humour rubbed off on him.

Finally, when Tom had apparently gotten bored of his plaything, he _politely_ requested the chef to remove his 'unwelcome presence from the room'.

It was then, and only then, that Harry expressed his amusement through a raised eyebrow. "Was that necessary?"

"It was, for both our entertainment," Tom answered smoothly. "I suppose you do not have a better idea of passing the time?"

"Actually," Harry said pointedly, "if you want to be on time for the _magic_ show, you should get ready."

"Ah, the irony, it is tremendous." Tom tutted. "Two powerful wizards viewing a magic show designed for children…"

"Firstly, it is not designed for children and secondly, please remember _who_ booked this show before you rush ahead to criticise it," Harry remarked dryly. "I, for one, cannot agree more that it was a poor decision on your part."

Tom paid his words no heed.

"We should have gone to the music concert." Harry was adamant.

"While you may find the idea of sweating in a congested room and being deafened by mindless Muggles screaming like a _band_ of baboons, I do not. On the other hand, I do relish the chance of seeing a Muggle _magician_ making a fool of himself."

—0O0—

Lolling on one of the black seats in the spectators, Harry could almost _sense_ the scornful sneer weaving its way across Tom's features.

Despite looking ever the part of a keen audience with his watchful eyes on the magician's every move, Harry had already concluded, with _full_ conviction, that the show was pathetic.

He supposed it justified Riddle's disdain if not the fact that Riddle had been the one to book the show in the first place.

Certainly, the theatre room with its draping crimson curtains and its exceptional lights was impressive… and Harry also had to give credit to the costume; the sweeping cape and the dazzling top hat… But they only succeeded in making the magician seem like an artificial peacock.

Harry clapped politely with the rest of the audience as the magician pulled a series of 'magical' tricks starting with pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and progressing onto vanishing a beloved assistant. All completely original, of course.

Tom, contrariwise, seemed to lack even the simple courtesy to applaud. Hidden in the darkness of the room, he was at free liberty to whisper endless disparagements of the show into Harry's ear.

As the performance developed, the magician evolved into an arrogant, strutting bighead who seemed, from his speeches, to consider himself an arbiter of culture, refinement and wit more than anything else

Subsequently, Tom's temper seemed to grow shorter and shorter at the prospect of wasting an entire night's time and money.

Finally, later into the night, only when the magician sent out a request for a volunteer did Tom's tight lips curve maliciously into a smirk for the first time.

"Proceed at your own danger! Are there any brave souls in this very hall who would risk missing bones in parts of your body?"

"Would it not be amusing," Tom murmured musingly, "if the volunteer happened to _actually_ have lost their bones, by mistake of course; a slip of our dear magician's hand. I consider it killing two birds with one stone; his career would be ruined… and there is also the additional bonus of a spectacle."

"Don't you dare," Harry growled, gathering the gist of Tom's words.

"Or, _you_ may choose to volunteer," Tom said wickedly. "I guarantee you that his so-called _magic_ is not parallel to yours. Why not demonstrate your skills and show him how to do things the _proper_ way?"

"You want me to wreck his show –" Harry started to say. _Too late._ Tom had thrust him powerfully from his seat.

Disastrously, it gave the impression of an eager boy leaping forward at the honour. And what was worse was that the magician's gaze latched onto Harry like a man dying of thirst. The way he drank Harry up sent chills down his spine.

"_Oooh_, such a daring little man," the Muggle proclaimed, his lips puckering disgustingly to underline the first word. "Do you volunteer?"

Harry glowered – at the useless question and at Tom. "Clearly," he bit.

"Very well, come closer, up the stage, come on." The man gave the crowd a dazzling sideways smile. "Now," he added to the audience, "those of you who are wallowing in disappointment at missing out on playing volunteer, I have a special treat for you…" He lowered his tone theatrically. "At the end of the show, there will be signed autographs for every one of you." He finished with a glamorous wink.

Harry contemplated choking on his own vomit.

As Harry cautiously climbed up the stairs to the stage he deliberately kept himself at a somewhat safe distance, out of range of the magician's arms.

To his annoyance, the man, who was not deterred, took a massive step towards him and pulled him into a dramatic embrace so that his cloak fell like a smothering wet towel into Harry's face. _So much for personal space._

When the man finally drew back, Harry was hit with an irrational urge to brush invisible dust specks off himself, if only to embarrass the bothersome fool.

"Little man," the overconfident man addressed him solemnly, "would you mind telling us your name?"

_'Little man'…as if he was five years of age. _"Sir," Harry countered coldly, "I do hope you won't mind telling us yours."

"Ah, I'm Gilderoy Lockhart - pleased to make your acquaintance," Lockhart beamed, flashing his shiny, white, tombstone coloured teeth around. He preened his handsome blond hair back exaggeratedly.

"Ralph," Harry said.

"Moving past the introductions, perhaps we ought to get on. Now Ralph, little man, please make yourself comfortable." Whirling a magician's polished stick farcically, Lockhart conjured a flamboyant chair in a wide assortment of colours.

Harry sat.

"My victims tend to find themselves in a great amount of shock," Gilderoy whispered in Harry's left ear. "If you are unable to continue, _do_ try to break off your screams long enough to tell me to stop. We'll work from the hand up, shall we?"

With a flourish, Lockhart pressed his magician's wand tenderly to Harry's wrist. "Let's do your left…" he muttered. In a louder voice, he shouted out, "_Brackium Emendo!_"

Curiously, a faint bluish-white glow emerged from Lockhart's wand and hovered above Harry's extended wrist.

Alarm bells went off in Harry's head a second too late. He was struck by a wave of giddiness followed by a loss of sensation in his left hand.

He glanced down at his immobile body part. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he made an attempt to move his fingers. Nothing happened. It was as though the digits were no more than a section of a snug, skin-coloured glove.

A realisation dawned upon Harry: Gilderoy Lockhart, the contemptible fraud, was no more of a Muggle than he was. As pathetic as Lockhart's endeavours at specific spells were, he was _undeniably_ a wizard.

"Ta-da! Ladies and gentlemen, here is our universal phenomenon, our boneless boy!" Lockhart shouted cheerily, snatching hold of Harry's left, limp hand and waving it feverishly at the audience as if Harry was a waxwork dummy.

Lockhart completely missed the withering look Harry sent in his direction.

"As a word of warning, Lockhart, no action is without consequence… Unfortunately for you, that consequence can be increased or decreased depending on who you have offended –" Harry's hissed onslaught was disrupted when a figure creeping through the seated onlookers caught his attention… And the main reason was because the figure was heading straight for Tom.

The weak light threw the figure into relief as he bent down to speak in Tom Riddle's ear. Harry could tell he was a member of the hotel's staff, dressed in the indicative ultramarine blue uniform identical to the rest of the employees.

Whatever he said, it had an effect on Tom, whose facial features were sharpening ominously as each millisecond ticked pass.

Reflexively, Harry leaned forward in a futile effort to hear Tom's inaudible reply to the hotel attendant.

As Harry watched, Tom waited until the attendant had retreated from the theatre before hoisting himself from the seat and bluntly making his way to the stage, ignoring the gasps and murmurs of disapproval in the audience about some 'rude interruption'.

Harry instantly stood after glimpsing the ugly expression on Tom's face; he elbowed a flabbergasted Lockhart, who was frantically trying to restrain him, aside. Wordlessly, Tom reached forward and seized his arm.

Time seemed to slow. One minute everything was peaceful and the next… Harry felt himself being sucked into a familiar abyss. There was a period of whirling madness…

And then all was peaceful again. Harry, as soon as he regained possession of whatever was left of his composure, turned angrily on Tom.

"Do you have_ any idea _of what you just did?" he hissed, taking care to keep his volume checked. "Disapparating from a public area with hundreds of watching Muggles? It's crazy, even for _you_!"

"They think it is a magic trick, previously arranged by the great Gilderoy Lockhart," the young Dark Lord replied briskly, sweeping the subject aside as if it was no great matter. He strode off into the darkness.

Harry followed him in quick steps. "Where the _heck_ did you apparate us to?" he called out.

They were literally in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by old, crumbling factory buildings. There were no street lights, no liveable houses, or any sign of human inhabitant in sight. The dusty path ran on ahead for as long as Harry's eyes could follow. This was a lonely ghost town, possibly abandoned after some natural disaster or factory failure.

"You will do well to speak the minimum amount," Tom said taciturnly. "Hasten your pace."

"What did the hotel attendant say to you?" Harry questioned.

When he received no reply, he knew the older Slytherin was deliberately snubbing him in the rudest way possible.

"What _did_ the hotel attendant tell you?" Harry repeated unrelentingly; he was determined on getting an answer.

Eventually, slowly, Tom Riddle twisted around to face him. His eyes flashed in icy anger. His pale lips unlocked and he murmured just one word, "Dumbledore."

Harry reeled back in alarm, the colour draining from his face.

"Unless you want to sacrifice yourself, _and_ me in the process, you will stop asking questions until we get to somewhere comparatively safe," Tom said. "They can track us."

Wordless at last, Harry numbly went along with Tom's demands with a sense of lingering dread.

Dumbledore – the name did not bear good news._ Not anymore. _Harry glanced at the regal, punishing, high-cheeked young Slytherin whose brusque pace was punctuated with a fierce determination.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what Tom was so determined about. _Avoiding Dumbledore? _

The bitter wind tore at them like a crazed banshee, even as they walked past the dead trees that stretched like eerie skeletons upwards into eternity.

The cold rushed at them, seeping into Harry's bones. He could hardly believe it. Tom had gone ahead and apparated them into the creepy old town without even claiming their luggage. They had left everything at the hotel, everything but their wands.

With no communication between the two of them, they walked on and on, and on. Thirty minutes slipped by unnoticed, and then an hour, and then two hours…

Finally, Harry dug his heels in the ground. "Where _are_ you heading?" he asked. "We've been wandering for hours."

Tom halted too. "Quit complaining," he snapped, tone clipped. "You brought this upon yourself. If you hadn't idolised Dumbledore as if…" He abruptly broke off, and Harry took the chance to add a few words of his own.

"I'd appreciate it greatly if you can just tell me –"

"Be quiet!" Tom hissed suddenly, interjecting Harry in mid speech.

Harry stiffened in pique. "Why should I do as you say –?"

"_I said be quiet_!"

The words, spoken harshly in such _urgency_, were enough to make Harry fall silent.

Slowly, he began to hear the thuds of faraway footsteps. Straining his ears, he thought he could make out human speech. Whatever was hiding ahead, it was coming closer.

Tom Riddle, who had somehow heard the approaching individuals long before Harry had, sprung gracefully – with the elegance of a ruthless, cold-blooded killer – into action.

Harry stifled a yelp of pain as Tom's fingernails dug hard into his arm, as if the intention was to draw blood, and was dragged brusquely into the rippling shadow of an old standing tree.

His heart vigorously pumped heavy spurts of blood into his veins. Thump, thump, _thump_, it went. He could feel Tom tensing beside him as the rise and fall of feet grew ever louder.

Finally, the approaching figures came within hearing distance. Harry swore the gruff voice sounded familiar.

"You think the devil's spawn came this way with the Potter boy?" the gruff voice said. "You-Know-Who's double; he's a calculating piece of work. Constant vigilance, I say – we may be walking into a trap."

"Our tracing spell is not particularly reliable… but it's the only one that can make it past our young Tom," an overtly memorable voice replied cheerily. "Of course, it would have been of no use if you had not seen them, Alastor."

Harry's blood froze. _Dumbledore. He had tracked them!_

"The tracing spell is moving quite wildly… I wonder what it means…" Dumbledore mused, lightly. "Our sleepless night may not have been in vain after all…"

It was that moment, that _very_ vital moment, which a pair of unblinking, kindly blue eyes popped into view.

Overcoming his shock at the discovery, Harry acted quickly in response. His hands flew to seize his wand from his sleeve.

But Tom was already prepared. Harry watched as the young Dark Lord slammed his fist into Dumbledore's chest with a resounding crack.

* * *

**More to come. What will Tom's actions be when Dumbledore's relentless tracking drives him over the edge? How will Harry pay? And how does that relate to Voldemort? We'll see in the next chapter.**

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	8. Powerless

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, especially since my name is not Joanne Rowling.**

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews. Feel encouraged to write more!**

* * *

_Harry's blood froze. Dumbledore. He had tracked them!_

_"The tracing spell is moving quite wildly… I wonder what it means…" Dumbledore mused, lightly. "Our sleepless night may not have been in vain after all…"_

_It was that moment, that very vital moment, which a pair of unblinking, kindly blue eyes popped into view. _

_Overcoming his shock at the discovery, Harry acted quickly in response. His hands flew to seize his wand from his sleeve._

_But Tom was already prepared. Harry watched as the young Dark Lord slammed his fist into Dumbledore's chest with a resounding crack._

Like a frail old man, Dumbledore staggered backwards, an expression of shock printed clearly on his timeworn face. Harry froze against the first instinct to rush to the headmaster's side.

Tom was unrelenting; raising his wand sinisterly with a look completely devoid of emotion in his eyes, and drew the weapon down in a graceful, deadly arc.

A force, fizzling with dark energy, whirled towards Dumbledore – but was intercepted. As were the other spells Riddle threw at the legendary wizard.

_Dumbledore was way out of their league. _Harry knew it. He just knew it. _It was like this with Voldemort. They would only last a certain amount of time… Dumbledore had to be thrown off their trail before then. _

"You, boy! Surrender your wand!" a gravelly voice rasped. "Or you will be made to."

Harry spun around, to be greeted by the sight of the bus driver he had seen earlier. _What in Merlin's beard…_

The driver's purple eye had been replaced by a gruesome-looking, ugly spiralling thing that stared at him in a hostile manner.

"Make me," Harry sneered.

In a shower of sparks, a battle quickly commenced as they came to blows. The ominous, undiluted Dark Arts pitched against the purest of light magic. A young boy struggling to survive in a harsh generation against an experienced wizard who wanted him captured for Dumbledore.

All notions of not harming the weird eyed wizard vanished in an instant, torn off, as Harry twirled his wand with expertise and launched fatal curse after fatal curse at the man.

They wanted his life. The least he could do was repay the favour. These were not innocents – they knew exactly what they were doing and they wanted his life.

It warranted absolute mercilessness.

The other wizard's curses also got extremely dangerous.

"Avada Kedavra," Harry said, watching as the man was resorted to diving for the ground.

"You, boy, we thought you had good in you," the wizard said, in between pauses. "Seems like we were wrong –"

A barrage of the darkest magic in response from Harry forced him to fall silent again, but there was no stopping the driver from completely what he started.

"Avada Kedavra curses already, eh? You must have a talent for it. You-Know-Who has done a mighty good job of educating you."

Harry scoffed. "That is rather hypocritical of you…if you consider it. After all, _you_ are the ones who want _me_ dead – and what for? To kill Voldemort?" As the words left his mouth, a curse spiralled from his wand and knocked the _hypocritical_ wizard three feet into the air.

_Amazing. _Power pulsated through his veins. Never before had he lashed out so freely, so deliberating with dark magic. It felt liberating. Like a serpent, it dove in and weaved through his blood, ringing with profound excitement.

The wizard with the fake eye lay a small distance from him, unmoving. For one reason or another – probably because he had been trying to take Harry's life – Harry felt no regret.

He looked towards where Tom was still sparring with Dumbledore. Abruptly, Harry knew how they could escape.

Harry grabbed the unconscious man and fixed his wand threateningly against his temple. "Dumbledore," he called out.

_Great. _It captured the old codger's attention.

"Look at me," Harry pronounced, slowly and plainly. "_Now_." His voice rang with authority.

The legendary wizard turned, in horror.

"Lower your anti-apparition wards," Harry ordered. "Or I'll kill him."

"You won't, my boy," Dumbledore said, his voice soothingly washing over Harry. "Deep down, you are good. You are not Voldemort. You have not killed. Surrender now and you will remain honourable." He took a step closer to him.

Tom raised his own wand unpromisingly, ready to curse Dumbledore if he got too close to Harry.

"Do you want to risk it?" Harry asked quietly. "I can do it, if you want, right here."

Dumbledore tensed. "My boy, there is another way. Drop your wand. Please, my boy, listen to me. Do you not trust me?"

"I _don't_ trust you," Harry snarled. "If you remember, you betrayed my trust last time."

"Forgive me, I did not mean it in such a way," Dumbledore explained, spreading his hands out peacefully. "You do not understand, my boy."

"_What_ didn't I understand?"

"There is another way we can kill Voldemort, without killing you – but we _need_ your help. Don't you want to protect Great Britain's citizens?" the headmaster asked, his eyes twinkling kindly. "Trust me, Harry, just this once." His tone drew to an end in a plead.

"I'd like to trust you," Harry said with sincerity. "But truly, I cannot. Dumbledore, I must tell you, your manipulations are convincing as ever – but _I've_ changed." He removed his wand from the unconscious wizard's temple and laid it against his throat.

"Look at the night sky, beautiful; marvellously clear without a single cloud," Dumbledore said. "Do you want to choose tonight to commit murder?"

"No," Harry said firmly, rigidly. "But I _will_ if you do not take down the wards."

"My spies are everywhere," the headmaster said. "Surely you do not expect to escape me entirely, even if you do break away from me tonight. I will track you down; it is inevitable. You may as well give yourself up."

"What's his name?" Harry asked suddenly, bluntly.

"Pardon me, my boy?" Dumbledore looked surprised at the unexpected change of topic.

He shook the man in his arms roughly. "What is _his_ name? The driver you sent to spy on us."

"Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said. "Mad-Eye Moody, famous auror."

"If you do not want _Alastor Moody_ to die, you will _lower the wards!_" Harry raised his voice. It sliced through the night like an assassin's knife.

"My boy –"

"_Crucio_," Harry murmured.

The body in his arms jerked wildly for a moment, in soundless agony, and then grew limp as Harry lifted the curse.

"That was a warning, Dumbledore," he said, calmly. "The next time, it will be real action."

Dumbledore's eyes flashed angrily, but he obeyed the command. In a split second, the wards were lifted.

Tom and Harry wasted no time on apparating away.

A spell, radiating with fury, hit the spot they had stood a moment ago.

—0O0—

As Tom Riddle stepped out from the shadows of the looming trees, the vague moon peered cautiously out at him from behind a grey cloud drifting in the middle of the twilight sky.

There was a bitter chill hanging in the atmosphere.

Robed sinisterly, he seemed unaware of the cold. A gust of night wind rippled his hair gently, tickling his skin.

A cruel light was carved permanently into his face. Tom's lips were pale as death itself, pursing together to form a mocking leer.

He peered down from the high-up hilltop at the rolling fields and hummocks shrouded in a veil of darkness.

It was a beautiful, inspiring night; perfect for people of many passions. The fragrance of sweet and peppery smelling wildflowers lingered in the air.

The grass was very high; wind coaxed the green strands to swing in time with its soft murmurs. The silence enveloped the night, only being broken by the occasional chirps of hidden crickets.

It seemed so normal, so ordinary; that it could easily be mistaken for a quiet area in a small town, or perhaps, a particular place in the countryside instead of the foreign territory of wilderness it was.

After a while, even the chirping of the crickets stopped. The night was no longer so young, and the crescent moon shone vibrantly like a lantern from above.

Tom Riddle, future Dark Lord, stood unmoving in the shadows, blending in so well that one could ever possibly have noticed him.

To put it in the simplest of words, Tom Riddle was troubled.

Harry Potter, tens of metres away, lay serenely asleep…for the time being.

They had been hunted like wild animals by Dumbledore ever since the night Harry had threatened him with Moody's life. Ever since the night the old codger had believed that Harry had turned rotten to the very inner core.

He could not help it. He was proud of the fact he had taken a stubborn, naive boy who hated the very mention of the Dark Arts and moulded him into the perfect… dark prince. It was ironic. It was pleasing.

It was how one of Tom's Horcruxes _should_ behave. Certainly, the Horcruxes were Voldemort's – but Tom liked to think of Harry as his. After all, wasn't it he who had managed to slash through the boy's obstinacy?

However, one thing that was not so pleasing was the problem Dumbledore proved himself to be.

He _literally_ had eyes everywhere.

Tom Riddle sighed inwardly. He had underestimated Dumbledore when he freed him. And now, it had come back to bite him.

Not only had they been forced to reside in the barren wilds in an attempt to avoid Dumbledore's spies, but they could not move into a human inhabited area without risking the old codger discovering them.

He had not told Harry because he saw no reason to, but he knew that eventually – sooner or later – Dumbledore would be on their trail again with his Order dogs. And perhaps, this time, they would sniff them out.

Tom cursed Dumbledore. If he had the chance, he would rip the eccentric oddball apart, wretched limb by wretched limb… and then he would move onto Grindelwald.

But the chance was gone, once and for all.

Dumbledore, someone he had planned to be a chess piece of his, had broken away and grown too strong for his liking. And now, his chess piece was turning on him, hunting him.

He glared at a swaying tree in the distance, and back at Harry.

Something had to be done about it. Something _had_ to be done. Before Dumbledore was impossible to rein in.

They could simply sit and wait like sitting ducks, which he suspected was what Harry would want or they could… think of another plan. And for the moment, Tom could only think of one thing – one thing Harry would hate very much.

Certainly, it was not the perfect scheme, but they had no other option. It was a dead end ahead. If they did not start back, Dumbledore would have them cornered.

With his idea in mind, Tom began planning out the exact detailed stages he would go through.

At a little past midnight, Tom Riddle was ready to carry out his plan, no matter Harry liked it or not.

—0O0—

Tom Riddle kept resolutely to the shadows. Every offending obstacle was out of his way, including Harry. The sleeping spell he had cast would ensure the troublesome adolescence would not wake until morning.

That gave him plenty of time to act.

And for him, success was definite. There was no chance of failure.

Ahead, like a deadly volcano, loomed the manor in which he intended to spend the night bargaining for his success.

Powerful wards surrounded it, he could tell. It was impossible to invade. Fortunately, invading it was not his goal tonight – after all, it would send a rude message to his host.

Not that his host was expecting _him_, of all people, but Tom would make sure the servants took him to the person he wished to see.

Tom halted, at the iron gates that prevented him from taking another step, and launched a spell at it.

Unsurprisingly, the gate creaked open. The first line of defence was always the weakest, but it served its purpose well. The alarm inside the manor was triggered… and if Tom was right, the master of the house would be sending his Death Eaters out to investigate the very moment.

He was correct, as usual.

The Death Eaters piled out like ants, faces dark and menacing, with Bellatrix at the lead. He stood his ground. He displayed no fear. _Where was the need to fear when the very group they formed was designed by himself?_

Clearly, Bellatrix did not seem to know this.

"Boy," she snarled, "what are you doing on our master's property?"

Stiffening in slight annoyance at the insolence she directed him, he did not reply. There was no need for him to waste energy on Voldemort's petty followers.

Snatching out a wand, Bellatrix asked again, in that tedious tone of her, "_Answer me_, boy! What businesses have you here?"

"Store your wands away," Tom replied, his cool voice contrasting against her furious one. "I want to see your handler, canine."

It did it for Bellatrix. She aimed her wand at his forehead and shrieked, "_Crucio!"_

The curse bounced off Tom's shield, harmless as a daisy.

"My, the Dark Lord's devotees are not as obedient as I thought," Tom said, bestowing a charismatic smile upon Bellatrix. "Something _has_ to be done about that. Perhaps I will talk to him about it."

"The Dark Lord does not entertain worthless guests with his supreme presence," Bellatrix barked. "His orders are to take you captive and feed you to his serpent."

_It would be interesting if Nagini recognised me, _Tom mused. However, he did not have the time to play.

"Every minute you keep me from my task, I promise you will regret, Bella," Tom said silkily, savouring the look of shock on her face at her name. "You know it as well as I do, _Bella, _the Dark Lord does not tolerate defiance of his wishes."

"And I would be defying his orders if I take your _nonsense!"_ Bellatrix sneered. "Take him down," she to those behind her with an impatient gesture."

Even the added efforts of the pathetic fools were nothing against him. Tragically, without the consent of one of the Death Eaters the wards would not allow Tom even one step into the manor.

Thankfully, there was no need for their consent. The noise Tom created drew Voldemort outside.

"What is this ruckus?" the Dark Lord snapped. "Bella, have I not told you to –"

A mocking smile plastered on his face, Tom turned to Lord Voldemort. "Good evening, my Lord."

At first, there was an astonished silence, and even the Dark Lord seemed taken aback but he started to chuckle. "Tom, so ready to sign away your freedom?" he asked. "I thought you enjoyed it."

"I do."

"Then, please, tell me the reason behind this unexpected…visit," Voldemort said. "Surely you do not expect me to allow you to just…leave?"

Tom let out a short, humourless laugh. "No, my Lord. I have no intention of leaving. Well, I do intend to make one last journey, but it will be a journey you will allow… If you realise my meaning… You do not yet have _him_."

Voldemort's expression enlightened with comprehension.

"I would appreciate it, my Lord, if we can talk inside, more privately," Tom suggested delicately, glancing towards Bellatrix who was looking extremely bewildered.

"Naturally," the Dark Lord said. "You must tell me all about _him_. Does he miss me?" A small smile intertwined with his features, a smile which Tom returned, as if it was a shared joke.

"If he misses you," Tom replied, "he doesn't show it."

When the two made their way to the front door of the manor, Tom Riddle smirked into the night.

As Lord Voldemort entered, he looked coldly back at the younger man.

"I have you in my power, Riddle," he said.

"I know."

* * *

**Can anyone guess Tom's plan? **


	9. Unbreakable

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Thank you for your reviews. Let's see what will happen with Tom's plan, shall we?**

* * *

_A mocking smile plastered on his face, Tom turned to Lord Voldemort. "Good evening, my Lord."_

_At first, there was an astonished silence, and even the Dark Lord seemed taken aback but he started to chuckle. "Tom, so ready to sign away your freedom?" he asked. "I thought you enjoyed it."_

_"I do." _

_"Then, please, tell me the reason behind this unexpected…visit," Voldemort said. "Surely you do not expect me to allow you to just…leave?"_

_Tom let out a short, humourless laugh. "No, my Lord. I have no intention of leaving. Well, I do intend to make one last journey, but it will be a journey you will allow… If you realise my meaning… You do not yet have _him_." _

_Voldemort's expression enlightened with comprehension._

_"I would appreciate it, my Lord, if we can talk inside, more privately," Tom suggested delicately, glancing towards Bellatrix who was looking extremely bewildered._

_"Naturally," the Dark Lord said. "You must tell me all about _him_. Does he miss me?" A small smile intertwined with his features, a smile which Tom returned, as if it was a shared joke._

_"If he misses you," Tom replied, "he doesn't show it."_

_ When the two made their way to the front door of the manor, Tom Riddle smirked into the night._

_As Lord Voldemort entered, he looked coldly back at the younger man. _

_"I have you in my power, Riddle," he said._

_"I know."_

A light sigh, almost inaudible, escaped Tom's lips.

Voldemort turned, with a partially entertained expression. "Already regretting your decision to disrupt my evening?"

"Of course not, my Lord," Tom said evenly. "I am simply admiring my old home… Dark green curtains, black polished floors… It really is rather remarkable, you know, how similar your tastes are to mine."

A look of surprise momentarily flitted across Voldemort's eyes. "I have forgotten how good you are at playing the fool. You still like to pretend you are your own individual, do you not? And not a replica of myself."

"According to Harry," Tom noted lightly, "I _am_ my own individual."

"Oh?"

"He certainly treats me as such," Tom said. "He loathes the very mention of you, whereas for me…"

They had reached Voldemort's personal office.

The door swung open to reveal a young lady with the palest platinum blonde hair Tom had ever seen, rivalling Lucius Malfoy's. Her cold amber eyes met his, lapping up his every essence.

"My Lord," she hailed the Dark Lord, lowering her head in a well-practised movement of courtesy. "You are back."

"Yes, I am back." Voldemort gestured Tom into his spacious office with a wave of his hand. "Make me a pot of tea, Daphne."

"So it is Daphne, your second apprentice?" Tom asked, unconcernedly planting himself in the grandest seat in the room, the station that was evidently meant for the Dark Lord. "I'd quite forgotten her name."

"I am sure you had," Voldemort commented dryly.

"You still have her at your side after so many years," Tom remarked candidly. "She must be as loyal as a female dog."

The Dark Lord let out an appreciative laugh, not seeming at all bothered his apprentice was being insulted. "She is dedicated to my cause."

It was the very second that Daphne opened the door. From her proud stance and the elated sparkle in her eyes, Tom could tell she had only heard her master's last sentence and nothing before that.

"Tea is ready, my Lord."

"Serve our guest first," Voldemort said. "He has done me a great favour by coming here tonight.

Daphne obeyed. When she handed Tom the cup, she peered curiously at him. It didn't slip pass Tom's ever watchful gaze.

He took the cup curtly without a single motion of gratitude.

"My Lord…" Riddle said pointedly.

"Get out, Daphne," the Dark Lord immediately ordered, understanding. "I wish to be alone with my guest."

Daphne went, ever the obedient servant. So unalike Harry.

When the door clicked shut, Voldemort faced Tom. He instantly knew that the Dark Lord meant business.

The entire expanse of the Dark Lord's face was a depiction of ice and frost, leaving no space for any nonchalance. "We have wasted quite enough time, Tom. Let us cut to the chase. What are you here for?"

Tom remained imperturbable, his voice unemotional when he answered ingenuously, "To strike a bargain with you."

Lord Voldemort's snake-like pupils narrowed into slits. "What sort of bargain?"

"I'll answer that particular question later," Tom said. "For now… don't you want to hear about Harry's progress?"

"I know he is sixteen, nearly an adult," Voldemort said darkly. "The boy, I believe, is still incurable as always?"

"Not exactly," Tom said. "He has been cured years ago, of his dislike for the dark magic and his hot-headedness."

A flicker of interest shone in the Dark Lord's eyes.

"Just the other day, he was threatening to kill Alastor Moody – if you know the auror."

"That sounds nothing like the Harry I knew."

"Ah, but he isn't the Harry you knew," Tom said, letting the slightest hint of smugness into his voice. "Only I know him well."

"Has he…"

Tom stared levelly at Voldemort, willing the inquiry to come out. As soon as the questions started, his success would be half ensued. He could see indefinite clues of Voldemort's lingering fascination for Harry. Tom would remember to praise Harry later for his talent of being memorable. It helped his mission a great deal.

"Has he mingled deeper with the Dark Arts?"

Tom gave a short laugh. "More than that, far more. I daresay he can crush some of your better Death Eaters… You know, my Lord, I've carved him into the perfect dark prince."

_"Have_ you, Tom?" Hidden somewhere in the sentence was mockery.

"What else can you expect, my Lord, from a psychopath such as myself?" It was said lightly, like a joke, but under the surface was a layer of unspoken victory.

_I have succeeded where you have failed. Harry trusts me._

"If I had to draw a conclusion, I'd say you care for the boy," Voldemort suggested casually. "Though it cannot _possibly_ be true… After all, you have a heart as hard as rock."

"If I seem like I care for Harry, then so must you, my Lord," Tom retorted gently. "Your attentiveness to Harry's new life cannot be pretence."

"I care only about what happens to him," the Dark Lord corrected coldly. "He deserves death and that is what I hope to give him."

"I'm sure it is."

"Where does his interest lie?" Voldemort said. "I am sure he does not go around cursing Muggles purely to savour their pain."

"It will take another decade to make Harry _revel in_ pain. For now, he merely does what needs to be done… what with the high price on his head and all," Tom said.

"If I had to guess, Harry has gained himself the quality of self-preservation."

"I agree," the younger man said.

"I must congratulate you, Tom," the Dark Lord stated. "It seems almost surreal that you managed to the impossible."

"Technically, _we_ managed the impossible," Tom said, "since, as you said, we are _one_. Sometimes all it takes is a different approach."

"It seems like it."

"You need to approach all matters inversely – and if you cannot bring about change yourself, you should acquire an alliance with a force worth joining," Tom said.

"Hmmm…"

"How is your war proceeding?"

"Why the sudden change of topic?" Voldemort said.

"Dumbledore appears to be growing in strength," Tom said. "Soon, _very_ soon, he will be unstoppable."

The Dark Lord stiffened. "I am grateful for your opinion, Tom. However, in the future, I will thank you to keep your unwanted opinions to yourself. You may just find yourself talked into trouble."

"Is that a threat?" the younger man asked, taciturnly.

"No, just a warning."

"All I mean, my Lord, is that perhaps it is time to try a new approach – as I did with Harry."

"A new approach for a war strategy, as you suggest, is a risk. Generally, it has fifty per cent chance of success and fifty per cent chance of failure. In this case, unfortunately, it has ten per cent of success and ninety per cent of failure."

"Not so, my Lord." Tom smiled delicately, showing his tombstone coloured teeth – white as it is sharp. "Not if you acquire an alliance with a force worth joining, as I said before."

"There is no alliance worth joining." The Dark Lord sneered slightly, as if scorning the absurdity of the idea.

"Really, my Lord?" Tom prompted. "Is there really not a single one?"

Lord Voldemort's pale hand came slamming down on a mahogany desk, creating a sharp sound. "We have spent an adequate amount of time bantering over battle affairs. If you need a reminder, Tom, I will _give_ you one so that you keep focused on why we are here."

"We are here because I have come to propose a bargain," Tom said steely. "I do not _require_ a reminder."

"Good things come to those who wait. I have always tried to be a patient man. Now, even my patience runs short," Voldemort said.

"You know, my Lord, how you said before that you wanted Harry to die?"

An eyebrow went up towards Tom's direction, unmistakably demanding how this was relevant.

"I am beginning to suspect you can simply sit and wait… and soon enough, you will see his death."

"And why is that?" Voldemort drawled silkily. "Does he not have you as a protector?"

"Harry has many enemies, even if we cut you from the list," Tom said. "My abilities are not sufficient to defend him from _all_ his enemies."

"Who can possibly be more powerful than me?" enquired the Dark Lord. "If that is what you are hinting at?"

"Not necessarily more powerful," Tom said slowly, deliberately, to make sure he got his point across. "But for now, he has the upper hand."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed again.

"Three guesses," Tom murmured.

"_Dumbledore_," came the sibilant hiss.

Tom's smirk confirmed everything.

"How did he make an enemy out of Dumbledore?" Voldemort said. "I have an inkling he was not singing my praises to the old codger."

Tom noted with faint pleasure the title they shared for Dumbledore – _the old codger_. "_Actually_, he was singing Dumbledore's praises... But it does not matter."

"Hmmm…"

"We have a common enemy, Lord Voldemort," he said firmly, using the Dark Lord's unutterable label for the first time that night. "The quickest way to execute him would be to join forces. I believe you can hardly say I am not a worthy power when _we are one_."

Tom found his own chilling blue eyes – or rather, Voldemort's – staring at him. And then…

The Dark Lord laughed. It was, without question, unsettling. It cast a shadow over Tom's mood and sent an involuntary shiver running down his spine. He wasn't scared, no, but the last thing he had expected from his older self was laughter.

And so, he sat composedly and waited. Waited for the Dark Lord to face him again.

When he finally did, the Dark Lord spoke with such scorn that Tom felt a swish of cold fury slither through him.

"Tell me, Tom, why should I join forces with you now to save your little pet?"

"Because, believe it or not," Tom said frigidly, with contempt, "you cannot win this war with Dumbledore by yourself."

"I find your rudeness taxing," Voldemort said. "It is improper to insult one's host."

"That was _not_ an insult. It is the undeniable _truth_," Tom hissed harshly.

"The _truth_," the Dark Lord snapped, "is that your life will become suddenly very miserable if you do not _watch your tongue!_"

The young Dark Lord stood, his black robes billowing around him. His eyes were wild with checked rage. It matched Voldemort's beautifully.

Almost ironically, at that moment, Daphne knocked.

It interrupted the intensity of the second. And Tom reined in his temper, and sat down again – just in time for Daphne to open the door and walk in.

"Midnight savouries, my Lord?" she asked, angelically. "Do _you_ feel like eating anything?" She directed the second question at Tom.

Tom could have snickered at the ridiculousness of the current situation. Although he felt, to some extent, thankful about the disruption. It would not have done him any good if the two Dark Lords had began trading spells in the middle of Voldemort's manor.

"Leave it here," Voldemort said brusquely, his tone impatient but obviously with his irritability now under control. "And go."

"Yes, my Lord."

As soon as Daphne stepped out of the room, Voldemort glared icily at Tom. "I will not tolerate your insolence in my house."

"Then, my Lord, perhaps you should reconsider my offer," Tom said. "It will serve both of us well."

"I cannot see why." Voldemort drew his lips back into a twisted smile. "You, like Harry, have caused me great difficulties. Why should I not torture you on the spot and send you back to your portrait?"

"Because," Tom Riddle answered smoothly, "you do not yet have Harry."

"And _why _is he so valuable to me that I _need_ to capture him?" Voldemort sneered. "You said so yourself – Dumbledore will kill him for me."

"Ah, but it is for that very precise reason that you _need_ him – and you need him before he is damaged by Dumbledore. Only I know his location… and somehow I do not believe that you can find him before Dumbledore does if you do not have my assistance."

"Why would I want to rescue him from Dumbledore in the first place?"

"Because," Tom replied with a mysterious smile, "he is your Horcrux…"

The Dark Lord drew back with a serpentine hiss of astonishment.

It was almost comical to watch the expressionless Dark Lord's emotions surfacing… _Disbelief, shock… and finally realisation. _

"You are lying," Voldemort said coldly. "There is no possible way –"

"My, the Dark Lord is in denial," Tom remarked wryly, in amusement. "But you _know_ I am right, as improbable as it seems. Harry being your dear Horcrux is the only logical thing."

No sounds came from Voldemort. He seemed to have, for the first time in his life, been rendered wordless.

"Unless you want to sit back and observe as Dumbledore tears your beloved Horcrux apart, you will side with me."

"Very well," Voldemort finally snarled. "You may go and get Harry."

Tom raised a slowing hand. "_Not yet_," he said. "There is no telling what you will do once Harry gets here. You will be at free liberty to torture him… and me…even if you cannot kill us. For all I know, you may wish to imprison us."

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow.

"I demand an Unbreakable Vow."

"That is not possible," he said cruelly. "We need a third person, a binder."

"Then call in your darling Daphne," Tom countered swiftly. "And erase her memories when we are finished."

Voldemort looked daggers at him. "I will extract my revenge from you."

"I look forward to it."

—0O0—

_Poor Daphne was looking abnormally pale_, Tom thought maliciously. _That is just too bad._

"Do you, Lord Voldemort, agree to join forces with Harry and me in light of these recent events?" Tom asked.

"I do."

A circle of golden light weaved around their extended wrists, while Daphne stood by the side – looking at them in faint horror.

"Do you swear not to betray us?"

There was a hesitant pause this time. "…I do."

"Do you swear you will use our full powers instead of imprisoning us?" Tom said, his voice rich with triumph.

"I do."

"Do you promise to disregard the past deeds, excuse the punishments you wish to heap upon Harry and me, and start anew?"

Ringing silence. The Dark Lord did not seem keen on an answer.

"My Lord?" Tom pushed brutally.

_"I do." _It was an angry, almost inhuman hiss that erupted from Voldemort's lips.

Another golden thread entwined their wrists. Tom nodded at Daphne to end the Unbreakable Vow. He was triumphant.

"Not yet," the Dark Lord snapped, whirling to face Tom. "Do you swear, in return, that you and Harry will not betray me a second time?"

"I do." And the binding was complete.

With a whisk of his wand, Tom knocked all of the memories in the past few minutes out of Daphne's mind. "If you do not mind, my Lord, I will go and fetch Harry now."


	10. Remembrance

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Before we go on, I'd just like to say that I recently posted a new fiction called Swastika Ashes on the site. It is not getting many views, perhaps because of the small amount of interest in historical areas such as the Holocaust. I hope, as a favour, some of you can check it out – just to see if it suits your tastes.**

**Here is the summary:**

**1940, Second World War. Hitler's reign took its toll on Great Britain. When a German bomb hit Wool's orphanage, Harry Potter and Tom Riddle are forced to evacuate with other children on a London train heading for the docks. The train was intercepted, the children seized by Nazis. Held captive in a Berlin concentration camp, Harry is injured during an attempted escape and left to die.**

**Coincidentally found and blooded by an elderly vampire lord, Harry gains immortality and is introduced to a new, sophisticated world of aristocratic vampirism. Slowly, he finds his place and wins his maker's affection.**

**Decades later, in 1996, Lord Voldemort recruits vampire covens for the upcoming wizarding war, when he plans on destroying the Boy-Who-Lived. What is Harry's part in this...and how would this concern his new-found vampire family?**

**Grey! Vampire! Harry. Different Boy-Who-Lived. AU mentorship.**

* * *

_"Do you, Lord Voldemort, agree to join forces with Harry and me in light of these recent events?" Tom asked._

_"I do."_

_A circle of golden light weaved around their extended wrists, while Daphne stood by the side – looking at them in faint horror. _

_"Do you swear not to betray us?"_

_There was a hesitant pause this time. "…I do."_

_"Do you swear you will use our full powers instead of imprisoning us?" Tom said, his voice rich with triumph._

_"I do."_

_"Do you promise to disregard the past deeds, excuse the punishments you wish to heap upon Harry and me, and start anew?"_

_Ringing silence. The Dark Lord did not seem keen on an answer._

_"My Lord?" Tom pushed brutally._

_"I do." It was an angry, almost inhuman hiss that erupted from Voldemort's lips._

_Another golden thread entwined their wrists. Tom nodded at Daphne to end the Unbreakable Vow. He was triumphant._

_"Not yet," the Dark Lord snapped, whirling to face Tom. "Do you swear, in return, that you and Harry will not betray me a second time?"_

_"I do." And the binding was complete. _

_With a whisk of his wand, Tom knocked all of the memories in the past few minutes out of Daphne's mind. "If you do not mind, my Lord, I will go and fetch Harry now."_

* * *

As he pushed his way through the lush meadows of copious gorgeous wildflowers, Tom Riddle's sharp, merciless features relaxed into a genuinely satisfied smile.

His mission could not have gone better. He had executed it perfectly, with the exact right amount of pressure and charm.

On the other hand, being Tom Riddle, he expected nothing less from himself.

He knew he had done Harry a great favour – although the boy did not deserve it.

Even Voldemort thought he was becoming too soft.

Tom gave a derisive snort. He also knew that once Harry heard of the news, the very last thing he would show was gratitude. Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered…

He, Tom Marvolo Riddle, despite not being an optimist was far from being pessimistic. He was a realist. And he was ready to bet on his life that Harry's reaction would be _ugly. _

He was not an overtly imaginative Dark Lord, he had to admit, but he could predict it all: the outraged look of betrayal, the shouting, the threats and accusations and maybe, _maybe_ Harry would even try to curse him.

Not that he was uncertain about who would end up cradling the worse wounds, but he was keen to avoid that turn of events if possible.

Tom reached down and brutally snapped a primrose from the middle of its stem. He really was becoming a saint, he decided in disgust.

Not only had he arranged for Voldemort to be merciful on Harry, had arranged countless Cruciatus Curses to be taken off his punishment list, but he had handed _himself_ as well to the Dark Lord purely out of the protection Lord Voldemort could provide for Harry from Dumbledore.

Harry owed his life to Tom… Goodness knows how dangerous it was to bargain with the devil or in this case, Voldemort, but Tom had gone ahead and done exactly that.

_And for what?_

He himself could not find an answer within him. Perhaps he simply revelled in creating dark princes for the sake of saving them from their fates.

Tom's fist tightened punitively and the primrose in his hand crumpled into crushed golden petals.

The colour of self sacrifice looked unflattering on his intelligent stature. He would make sure Harry paid him back for the favours he had done him in double the price.

—0O0—

"Tom," Harry called, "where on earth were you?" He bounded up from the position on a patch of grass.

"Nowhere that would interest you," Tom replied smoothly.

"I've been looking for you since the crack of dawn," Harry said, with a small grin. "Thought you got tired of running away and went to commit a suicide."

"Do I look at all suicidal to you? If there is a single person who values life more than anyone else on this planet, it ought to be me." Tom raised a mocking eyebrow. "Trust you to wake up at the first rays of sunlight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing you should worry about."

Harry frowned. Tom was acting bizarrely, even for himself. He had always been a mysterious wizard, but this morning it seemed all young Dark Lord wanted from Harry was to mind his own business.

"I want to know, Tom," Harry stated, in a voice of steely determination. "Where did you go?"

"You should learn to respect other people's privacy, Harry," Tom said coolly. "Especially the privacy of a future Dark Lord. I will thank you to keep your wretched curiosity to yourself."

"What a shame the prospect of receiving your gratitude is not extremely tempting to me," Harry countered, giving a sharp, glistening smile. "My intuition tells me wherever you went concerns me – and my intuition is rarely wrong."

"It seems like your intuition has _just_ made a mistake a few seconds ago."

"It hasn't," Harry bit down in confirmation. "I am sure of it."

"Very well, if you _must_ know…" Tom gave a fake, breezy sigh. "I have discovered our next destination. As soon as you get there, you will be in no danger from Dumbledore."

"You are lying, right?" Harry asked, with a brisk laugh in his voice. "This is a joke."

"It isn't."

"Ha, ha, really funny, Tom," he said lightly. "You cannot escape from Dumbledore if he is resolute on finding you."

"I have my _own_ methods," Tom said remotely. "They just may save your life."

"And what methods may _they_ be?" Harry asked, teasingly.

"You will find out when the time comes. You'll only have to wait a few hours – we will head there when night falls again."

—0O0—

Night did fall, silently, like ink spilling from an inkwell. It rolled like curtains over the heavens, causing the limitless blue sky to suddenly plunge into darkness.

Harry bowed his head against the raging wind that swooped down like a banshee as it claimed the leaves that abandoned their branches to become prisoners of the wind.

It truly felt like he had stepped from the mortal world through one of the gateways to hell. Or _rather_, Tom had _apparated_ him directly to hell.

He looked back, at where the horizon should have been. The sun had long faded, as had its warmth.

Where the underside of the sun should have dipped into vivid, crystal clear waters of a lake, there was eternally stretching darkness.

Where there should have been green fields, blossoming flora, bees humming, birds singing and crickets chirping was only Tom Riddle striding emotionlessly ahead.

Where kind sunbeams should have reached down and gingerly tickled the soft blades of the grass, before kissing the sky, was a crow cawing overhead on a bare tree with crooked branches that were outstretched like ashen fingers of the deceased.

Harry felt exposed. Dreadfully exposed, for reasons he knew not.

"It is close," Tom said evenly. "Very close."

Sure enough, within a few minutes, they had arrived. Harry stopped dead beside Tom and gaped in disbelief at their _perfect safe haven_.

There should have been a mansion, with divine, copper-red bricks and transparent windows that glistened like chipped diamonds under the sun's glare. Perhaps one of the windows could have revealed a grand piano through velvet curtains.

He had expected a scene taken directly from paradise.

And instead was greeted by a chilling nightmare.

There was a shadowy mansion, materialising from behind clouds – and yet still half hidden by menacing iron gates. It was like a lithe predator, crouching discreetly and ready to spring at any moment.

The countless windows that overlooked the manor grounds had dark green draperies covering them.

Somewhere beyond the iron gates, Harry knew, was an enriched flower garden with a statue of Hades, God of the Underworld. He was all too familiar with it.

Even the sight of his old 'home' brought back painfully searing memories. Every fragment of his previous life held one individual. One individual who had controlled him like a puppet and tormented him.

Looking up from beneath his dark lashes, Harry _knew_ that the evil man dwelled inside the manor… and that Tom Riddle – a former trusted ally – had manipulated that trust and led him straight into the snake's pit.

Without warning, Harry jerked backwards and twisted around wordlessly.

He ran.

Down the narrow path he had walked up with Tom Bloody Riddle. He tore down the pathway, brushing past low-hanging branches, and pictured Hogsmeade in his mind. He made an attempt at Apparition.

It felt like slamming headfirst into a solid concrete wall.

_Oh, just brilliant. _Somebody had put wards up. He was well and truly trapped.

Trapped in a snake pit with the most fearsome serpent of all: Lord Voldemort.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Tom Riddle approaching him… And following Tom were numerous Death Eaters that flew at him from the now opened iron gates like black wasps.

Harry yanked out his wand from his sleeve and levelled it at one of the Death Eaters and took aim.

It was all that required to knock the idiot out cold.

He was no longer a young boy, a weak fledgling – but it made little difference when he was facing not only two versions of the Dark Lord but also the entire army of Voldemort's merciless minions.

He was helpless. He would be helpless no matter what his decision.

And so he chose not to fight.

Glancing out at the sea of black robes, he quickly decided with conviction that struggling was a waste of effort. He pinpointed Bellatrix, with her streaming curls and cruel laughter.

Even if he killed himself trying to escape, he still would not be able to make it past twenty metres.

"I believed you," was all he coldly said, when Tom came within hearing range. "I believed you when you said you were taking me to a safe haven. You know, they say naivety can kill - I think I know what it means, now."

"Not all safe havens are like Noah's Ark," Tom replied shortly.

"Isn't that similar to what the Nazis told the Jews?" Harry said stonily. "That they were going to be taking a shower… and then gas them?"

"It must be –" Tom was interrupted by Bellatrix's frantic shrieks.

"The _boy_, the traitor! Can you not see, you blind fools?" she screeched loudly. "_Bind_ him for our lord!"

A pair of burly Death Eaters with bulging arm muscles stepped forward meaningfully with their wands outstretched. They looked as if they were going to obey the Dark Lord's top lieutenant.

Harry stiffened. He would curse their hands off if they dared to touch him… and he was about to say so.

But it turned out he didn't even need to.

"Order your imbeciles to keep their filthy paws to themselves, Bella," Tom commanded icily. "Harry is the Dark Lord's prize."

"And please, if I may know, who placed you in charge?" Bellatrix sneered. "Who placed you, the newcomer, who does not even know the ropes, in charge?"

"_Lord Voldemort_ placed me in charge," Tom snapped. "Be mindful of how you speak."

Bellatrix inhaled sharply, in a mixture of shock and fury. "You dare taint _his_ name with _your_ common tongue?"

"Be quiet, Bella," Tom hissed softly, "while I deliver our guest to the Dark Lord."

Perhaps there was something foreboding in his tone... Harry was not sure… but whatever it was, it made Bellatrix effectively fall silent.

"Tell me, Tom," Harry said slowly, "am I a gift to Voldemort in order for you to return to his good books? Or am I a sacrifice that has to be made?"

"Neither."

"Then…" Harry gave a bitter smile. "What am I?"

"You will find out when you see _him_." Tom's eyes glinted teasingly at him, as if it was nothing but a light joke.

A series of hysterical laughter threatened to bubble from Harry's lips. _This was what he got for being too trusting._

**...**

"Really, it is an immense pleasure to see you, Harry," the Dark Lord purred, as he glided across the unoccupied hall.

"Beg your pardon, my Lord, but I hope you will not take offense when I say the exact opposite." Harry stood rigidly in the middle of the room, unmoving.

Watching the show from a dim corner, Tom let out a small chuckle that drew both the stares of Harry and the Dark Lord.

"Surprised much, my Lord?" Tom asked smoothly. "I even corrected his informal language."

Every existing nerve in Harry's body was screaming at him to turn tail and flee… and he was resolutely ignoring the impulse… but he was not going to fight the monster either. He would not give Voldemort the indulgence.

"Amazing," the Dark Lord commented. "He is certainly…"

A delicate pause while Voldemort looked him up and down.

"…a work of art."

"Which one?" Tom asked, in jest. "The Mona Lisa or the Birth of Venus?"

"Last time I checked, Harry was not a Muggle girl with invisible eyebrows," Voldemort said. "But perhaps I passed over something."

Tom made a soft sound of appreciation.

"So…" Voldemort returned his attention to him. "How are we feeling, Harry?"

He bit into his lips until he drew blood. He was _not_ going to grace Voldemort with his words.

Voldemort walked silently around Harry so that he advanced from behind him. "Harry, Harry, need I remind you how wearisome you have become for me?" he hissed gently.

Harry suddenly felt the horrid, glacial sensation of the Dark Lord's yew wand trailing his neck. He gasped noiselessly as memories he would rather forget shot back at him with the force of a cannonball.

_The Dark Lord turned towards Harry again, with a face the colour of thunder. "Harry Potter… Do you now see the full extent of trouble your actions caused me?" He clicked his fingers, and Harry landed embarrassingly on the floor._

_"Do you now see the mess you created? Crucio!" _

_Nothing could have prepared Harry for this pain; it dug into him with claws and rolled onto him in exploding waves. It tossed him off his feet and proceeded to burn him alive from the inside._

It was too much. "Get your wand _off_ me!" Harry snarled, brandishing his own wand with the quickness of a viper. "Stay away."

A look of surprise flitted across the Dark Lord's expression for the fleetest of moments. "You dare raise a hand to _me_, Harry?"

Another memory attacked him. He could never forget it; the agonising pain Voldemort put him through would stay with him forever.

_Miraculously, it struck Voldemort – who had been caught completely off guard – directly on the chest. _

_In Harry's weak state, it did little more than cause Voldemort a few mild cuts. On the other hand, it served very well to arouse the dark wizard's fury._

_Harry was hurled thirteen feet into the air and slammed ferociously against one of the walls. The sudden pain blinded him. _

_"You dare attack me, Harry?" Voldemort asked. _

_The force pinning him against the wall was lifted and he came hurtling down. The collision with the ground probably broke one of his ribs. Everything was hazy, and something wet was flowing from his forehead._

_"No," Harry gasped, wholly incapable of moving from his position._

"Yes, my Lord," Harry calmly replied, still clenching his wand. "I dare."

Voldemort chuckled, his laughter rich against the blank walls it bounced off. "I see, Harry, you have become…" He did not seem to bother to finish his sentence. "Better tuck your wand away, my boy. This will be a long night…"


	11. Sacrifice

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me**.

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews I received in the last chapter, and I hope you'll review again! I apologise for the long wait... but as promised, here is the chapter!**

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The wand remained defiantly in Harry's tensed hand, as he glared balefully in the direction of Voldemort.

The Dark Lord flung both his hands upwards in an expression of exasperation and amusement. With an arched brow, he inquired, "Why so hostile, Harry?"

It appeared his teasing was going to bother Harry throughout the long night.

Harry did not see the necessity to credit the maddening question with an answer, and so, he pointedly pursed his lips.

Lord Voldemort, smiling cruelly, took a step towards Harry and drew both his arms around the teenage boy in a mocking imitation of a warm hug. "Welcome home," he whispered softly, in Harry's ear.

He saw the challenge in Lord Voldemort's eyes. It was there, shining like a beacon in the coldness of the pupils. It dared him to endure the discomfort. It scorned his bravery.

_You fear me, _it was almost saying_, you fear my touch._

Harry was abruptly struck by the strongest impulse to pull away. Every nerve in his mind was screeching at him to keep his distance from the dangerous wizard. The muscles in his legs stiffened, ready to take him away in one powerful backward leap.

But he allowed himself to stay on the spot, his own arms hanging deliberately by his side as he watched, with a sick feeling, as the pale, serpentine limbs pressed into him.

The Dark Lord did not let go.

Instead, he constricted, like a large, monstrous snake, tightening around Harry in an open power play of supremacy.

"You are ill at ease," Voldemort hissed, with a provoking smirk on his face that made Harry long to strike it. "I can sense your distress." It was a taunt. "Are you nervous, Harry, that I can cause you pain?"

Harry's heart, traitorously, sped up at the half threat.

"Anyone would be distressed," Harry retorted, "if a mentally retarded man got his face in theirs."

It was a weak bluff, and even he knew it. He _was_ afraid of the Dark Lord. Ever since their last encounter in this very hall.

The way he had cringed at the end of Voldemort's yew wand, flinching at the promise of further torture… Harry would never shake the memory off.

He hated it, his weakness.

The truth, which he could not hide from himself, was that he was terrified of the power Lord Voldemort wielded, the power that could crack down on him whenever the dark wizard so wished.

He had _only_ been twelve years old when he had to face the horrors.

"How long can you bear this?" Voldemort said, silkily. "How long can you stand being in such close proximity to me?"

Perhaps, it was a reminder. A reminder that sooner or later, he would be disciplined for the trouble he had caused the Dark Lord. That the Dark Lord would finally get his revenge.

Harry suppressed a shudder.

A part of him could not believe Tom could simply hand him over to the merciless wizard. He felt sick to the stomach, betrayed.

If it was not for the fact he was unwilling to show feebleness in front of Voldemort perhaps he would be retching.

Harry closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself, aware that the Dark Lord was observing him in entertainment. The contact was really bugging him now. He could feel goosebumps popping up along his arm.

_Some power play. Nasty Voldemort._

Fortunately, Tom spoke at that moment.

"My Lord, if I may interfere," the Slytherin said smoothly, "maybe we should save the welcomes for later, when Harry fully understands the circumstances."  
His tone was light, but the subtle intention was there.

If Harry did not know better, he would assume Tom was helping him.

He inwardly relaxed as Voldemort let go of him.

"I never realised, my Lord, that it was a common custom among dark wizards to be so… clingy," Harry said, as soon as he recovered his composure. He felt a stab of triumph when Voldemort narrowed his eyes warningly.

"You tongue knows no boundaries," he commented. "I take it that Tom had never thought to control it?"

"I never saw any need to." Tom smiled, showing rows of sharp teeth. "It is a good source of amusement, especially when he insults someone other than me."

In any other situations, Harry would have cracked a grin. Tom's derisive humour, at its best, had the ability to make him laugh.

Now, however, Harry was in no mood to listen to jokes.

Not when Voldemort was glancing at him with such intensity that led him to suspect that when the Dark Lord finally chastised him, it was going to _hurt_.

He stared steely at Tom, unspeaking. At times, silence was the most effective form of waywardness when dealing with the older Slytherin.

As he predicted, Tom broke the silence first, in his dry tone, "You honestly should be more grateful, Harry."

Voldemort inclined his head in agreement. "Tom paid me a visit last night, and begged me all but on his knees to take in a special stray animal. I felt obligated."

"That is an exaggeration of the truth," Tom stated nonchalantly. "I feel compelled to point that out."

Harry looked fiercely at both versions of the Dark Lord, first Voldemort, then Tom, then back again. As much as he loathed being compared to a stray animal, he hated the actions of Tom even more.

"I suppose no one asked the stray whether he _wanted_ to be here," he said bitterly.

Suddenly, he found himself pinned down by two pairs of wintry blue eyes. One pair belonged to Voldemort and the other to Tom.

It was that split moment that he truly registered how alike the two sorcerers were. They had the same cruel, high cheekbones, the proud stance, the pale complexion, and the pitiless flash in the eyes.

"I did not lie to you, Harry," Tom said steadily. "For you, this _is_ the perfect safe haven."

Harry found himself overwhelmed by the temptation to pitch something heavy, anything, at the young man's flawless, arrogant face. "Safe and Voldemort do not fit well in the same sentence, if you think about it."

"I do not see why not…"

His fists scrunched involuntarily, as he dug his nails into the soft flesh of his palms in an attempt to control the intense sensation of frustration and vulnerability that arose within him.

After helping him evade the Dark Lord for half a decade, he could scarcely accept that Tom had simply turned him over to the vindictive monster. It was his gullibility playing up again, he supposed.

"I extend my home to you out of generosity, and this is how you treat me," Voldemort cut in, brusquely. "Not very gracious of you, Harry."

"I take it you have already forgotten how you _graciously_ treated me," Harry grounded out, "with a _gracious_ dose of the Cruciatus."

A series of deep chuckles emerged from Voldemort's throat. "Are we still sore about that, Harry?" he enquired. "I thought we'd be at least even in your mind, after my plights." He paused. "Although, on a personal note, I believed you warranted further punishment."

Harry thought he detected an edge of anger in the Dark Lord's tone. It was perhaps just him hallucinating.

"Do not alarm the poor child, my Lord," cautioned Tom, with an infuriating smile. "He is shaking."

_And so he was, _Harry realised. _He was shaking not in fright but in speechless fury. _

Harry had never assumed he would ever be emotionally marred by the ruthless nature of Tom; never thought his emotion dependency for the older Slytherin ran so deep. Given that one could not possibly be psychologically wounded by somebody one mistrusted.

Once again, he now understood, he had underestimated the young Dark Lord's expertise in the area of manipulation. Harry had heaved himself straight into the delicate cocoon Tom had woven, and had gotten caught in the web of lies.

He had grown to develop a stable faith for the man, and when Dumbledore had revealed his true colours, he had depended utterly and only on Tom.

In short, he had made himself defenceless.

The taste of betrayal in his mouth was acrid, and embittered with poison. It made Harry feel oddly lightheaded. Redness danced in front of him.

It was as if something within him, a delicate thread that had been straining throughout the evening, suddenly snapped.

He grimly stepped in long strides towards Tom, who flashed a blasé smile at him. Harry's teeth clamped together. All thoughts of holding himself back vanished from his mind. He would not be wronged in this fashion. Ever.

_You arrogant excuse for a lowlife, _Harry had wanted to say. However, instead of speaking, he drew his fist back and, with lightning-fast movements, dealt Tom a sharp blow to the nose.

Harry saw Tom's eyes widen in shock as the fist connected, too amazed to react. There was a gruesome crunch, a sound towards which Harry felt a sense of satisfaction.

Judging by the impact he had felt, he would have thought the older Slytherin would have doubled over with a small yell, at the very least.

In spite of this, Tom did not make an effort to move. His spinal cord remained straight as he maintained the maddening cool posture. His lips did not even twitch, let alone allow any noises to escape.

If it was not for his anger, perhaps Harry would have been impressed.

Blood was pouring like a streaming river from Tom's broken nose, and yet he did not use his wand to halt the flow.

Only Tom's blue eyes, narrowed to slits, betrayed a hint of the physical pain.

Otherwise, he simply stood there, gazing at Harry as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

From the corner of Harry's eyes, he saw Voldemort looking on with an expression akin to mirth. "Temper, temper," the Dark Lord chuckled quietly, but he made no move to assist his younger counterpart. In fact, he looked strangely pleased.

Unaffected by Lord Voldemort's comment, Harry did not feel his temper curbed in the least. He took another swing at Tom's face.

This time, the Slytherin responded like a striking snake. His hand shot out and seized Harry's wrist in a vice-like grip. Although, to Harry's surprise, his wrist was not crushed excruciatingly in repayment, but it was still too close for his comfort.

He snatched his hand from Tom's grasp, disgusted at the blood on them. It was Tom Riddle's blood.

He had never felt less sorry in his life.

The sod deserved it for toying with him.

"I never realised you bled like a normal human being," Harry said sarcastically, his voice enriched with a particularly brutal bite.

Tom, seemingly unperturbed, returned equably, "You punch like a little girl."

"And yet you are bleeding like a stuck pig," Harry snarled. "Pity you do not squeal like one. Maybe we should try again."

_"Excellent_ suggestion, Harry," Tom agreed lightly. "Would you like to play the pig, this time?"

"You wish."

"In my humble opinion," Tom said, "you should try attacking with spells. So much more effective. Not to mention you do not give the impression of an uncivilised Muggle."

"Physically hurting you loses so much gratification, that way," Harry said.

"Keep working, Harry, and soon we will make a sadist out of you," came the teasing jest.

Harry could not help but wonder how the Slytherin managed to stay so casual while the pool of blood collected on the black marble was increasing in volume by the second. Let alone the distractive ache of a broken nose.

"If you are so fond of magic, why not heal yourself?" Harry finally asked.

"Why, you sound almost concerned," Tom observed, the infuriating smile back on his face again. "How sweet."

"If you bother to deflate your head a little, you will learn to see things in a different light."

"Perhaps I wish to keep this," Tom gestured at his injury as if Harry had not spoken, "as a memento."

"Keep working, and soon we will make a masochist out of you," Harry retorted, mirroring the Slytherin's previous words.

At this, Voldemort finally laughed. He wrung his spidery fingers together, and fixed Harry with a level look of curiosity. "You have an active imagination, boy. Although, I can guarantee you, no version of me is masochistic."

Harry steadfastly ignored him.

"At any rate, I am glad you stand in front of me, unharmed and untouched," the Dark Lord said, much to Harry's suspicion. "Heavens know the damage dear Professor Dumbledore could have done if he had gotten his old claws on you."

If events had not spiralled so crazily out of control in the last or so months, Harry was almost sure he would be vehemently defending Dumbledore. Now, however, things felt so dreamlike that he did not know what to do.

"Let me guess…" Harry said sharply, his voice laced with venom. "Tom told you?"

"He gave me a detailed recount," Voldemort replied, "of everything significant that happened to you in the last five years, and of how you changed."

"That is an overstatement," Tom interrupted brusquely.

Harry glared at the Slytherin accusingly, wishing he could shred the git into pieces with his eyes.

"Unfortunately," Voldemort picked up again, with definite pleasure in his voice, "I was reluctant to allow you back into my home. He had to _persuade_ me by divulging a little _secret_."

He felt as if someone had slipped several ice cubes down his collar. His lips thinned and his brows knitted together.

_"My precious, seventh Horcrux," _Lord Voldemort whispered, in distinct Parseltongue. The sibilant hiss lingered sinisterly in the air. _"You belong to me. You are my property. Disobedient little Horcrux."_

His heart clouted heavily against his chest like the thrashing wings of an enormous, caged bird. A sudden bloom of heat spread across his body, followed by coldness. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he drew in a quickened breath in trepidation.

"You know, Harry, I have never met anyone quite like you," Voldemort said. "I have never seen anyone throwing punches at a Dark Lord without suffering retaliation – yet I can assure you if I attempt to punish you for your appalling behaviour, Tom will step in."

Taken aback by the statement, Harry glanced sideways at Tom. The young man was also listening to Voldemort, with an impassive expression.

"In fact," Lord Voldemort continued, "last night, Tom held me under the Unbreakable Vow not to punish you for your past deeds. In return, he made an oath on your behalf. To cut a long story short, the moment you betray me again or escape without my permission, he will die an extraordinarily agonizing death."

"Is that supposed to make me stay?" Harry asked. "What do I care about his death?"

"Would you truly kill someone who has your best interests in mind?" Voldemort smiled wickedly. "You are a horrible liar, Harry. Of course you care."

Harry glanced at Tom again, hesitantly. "Do I?" he challenged the Dark Lord.

"I'd hope you do," Tom said quietly.

He felt all the anger, all the energy rush out of him. He deflated. It left him feeling drained, close to exhaustion. _What a nightmare._

"Take Harry to his old room," Voldemort said to Tom. "It is late." It was as if he could read his mind.

He grudgingly followed Tom out of the hall, knowing that he – for the night at least – would have to remain in the manor.

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**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**


	12. Return

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**I made an attempt to update sooner... But this chapter just would not cooperate! It is just so annoying when words do not flow smoothly and the characters fight you every step of the way... Just joking. Who am I to blame it on J.K. Rowling's characters when it is actually my fault? **

**Sorry, just not feeling so confident about this chapter. I would really appreciate feedback and reviews. Oh, and I must not forget to thank those who reviewed the last chapter!**

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Ghosts of his past surrounded him, grazing against him, raising goosebumps on his skin as Harry followed Tom through the curving corridors and up the slithering stairs. He could feel the coldness of the wooden banisters beneath his palm, seeping into his fingers.

The portraits hanging along the bleak walls stared gravely down at him, and Harry was hit by a sense of intense familiarity.

His past life affected him much more than he cared to admit. It was within this manor that he developed his first true affiliation with dark magic.

Now, he was back, with the Dark Arts blossoming between his fingertips, entirely at his beck and call; his to manoeuvre.

Without Voldemort, none of this would have happened.

If Snape had not forced him into that blasted duelling competition he would never have attracted the Dark Lord's attention in the first place. He would never have met the portrait version of Tom Traitor Riddle, he would never have freed Dumbledore, and he would never have reached his highest magical potential.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he would still be an invisible student at Hogwarts, studying under Carrow's iron clutch.

Fate had a certain ironic edge. It was as if it took pleasure in manipulating him, toying with him.

Harry was not sure he would be the person he was, Horcrux or not, without undergoing the experiences he had undergone.

As Tom rounded a new corridor, he halted outside a locked door, unbolted it, and threw it open, accompanied to a creak.

Harry's breath caught in his chest.

His old bedroom.

Nothing had been changed. Literally, not one single detail. Not the splendour of the shining lattice windows that had once taken his breath away, or the bare white walls. Or the luxurious bed smoothed down with the finest eiderdown money could afford. Or the black satin drapes that once shrouded him in darkness and provided the best of privacy.

Not even the lone portrait had been removed. The only difference was that it was now empty, while its past inhabitant stood next to Harry in flesh and bones.

Tom moved aside to allow Harry into the room.

"Impressed?" Tom asked, his voice lilting. "Your very own, for tonight, and all the nights in the foreseeable future."

Harry chose to be the bigger man and let the last part of the sentence slide. His gaze landed on a chess-set that sat on one of the broad shelves, collecting dust.

To think he had once commenced in a chess game with Voldemort.

It seemed ridiculous now.

"So he shut off the entire room, eh," Harry muttered absently, to himself.

"Always acquaint yourself with the obvious. It is the surest way to make sure you are never wrong," Tom said.

He could feel his irritation bubbling vigorously. "In case you haven't noticed," Harry retorted, "I was not speaking to you."

"You know…" Tom smiled airily, striding through the room as if he owned it. "They say talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, which is then followed by –"

"Look, I really don't care," Harry started. "So, if you don't mind shutting up…"

"I do mind."

Harry glared ominously at the young Slytherin, soothing himself with the promise that one day, when Riddle's nose had been fully healed, he would break it again. And after that, if his wrath could not be sated, maybe he would treat himself to breaking the young Dark Lord's arm.

"Sit down, Harry," Tom continued, in a softer, more serious tone.

"Pardon?" He was stunned by the unexpected change of topic. Tom tended to have that effect on him; he changed subject matters so quickly that Harry did not stand a chance of catching up.

"Do you understand the meaning of 'sit' or do I need to spell it out for you? On your bed, on the chair, whatever. We need to talk."

A sneer appeared on Harry's face. "Oh no, I don't think so, darling. I seem so easy to push around, right? Press a few buttons here, and you get a positive response. Pull a few strings there and you get to manipulate the marionette. Well, this is the end of it. No more. You don't get to take advantage of me anymore."

"I never tried to take advantage of you," Tom replied automatically. "If I truly saw you as one of my puppets you'd be prostrate and broken."

A derisive snort escaped Harry's throat, and Riddle snapped around to pierce him with narrowed eyes.

"I thought you would've known by now. As much as I hate to be associated with anything linked to Gryffindor, I can be compared to a cat in the way I _toy_ with my prey. If they can hold my interest for long enough, I play with them… but like all new toys, they break. When my toys break, I tend to dispose of them."

Riddle's voice was low and chilling. Harry had no doubts that he was telling the truth about _playing with people._

"Are you disposing of me now?" Harry asked. "Like one of your broken toys? Except I am still in one piece. Is Voldemort going to take over and finish the job for you?"

Tom was silent, his deadpan facade unreadable. However, all the time he had spent around the Slytherin paid off, and he could deduce a certain discomfort from the way Tom's elegant fingers pulled frequently at the curtains, in a flippantly casual manner.

And yet, Harry knew, Tom rarely engaged in repetitive actions. Conclusion: Tom was uncomfortable for some unknown reason.

"Are you so bored with me that you cannot _wait_ to get rid of me?" he pressed.

And Riddle's expression darkened like a thundercloud.

"How dare you suggest that when you have punched me and I have done nothing?" he started dangerously. "Do you, even with a small mind like yours, realise the millions of ways I could have taken revenge?"

Harry opened his mouth for a sharp retort, but Tom bet him to it.

"If you had been one of my 'marionettes', as you cleverly put it, do you understand how I would have dealt with you?" Tom fixed him with an intent look, and all but purred, "Do you truly, naively, believe I allow everyone to get away with it?"

"All a part of the manipulation," Harry answered firmly.

Tom scoffed and arched a brow. "Voldemort was right when he said he had never seen anyone throwing punches at a Dark Lord without suffering retaliation."

"Then somebody _really_ needs to stand up to the pair of you," Harry said.

"You do realise, Harry, that I have your best interests at heart?" Tom asked, with a mocking smile. "I do what is best for you."

Harry dismissed that comment too. "It is rather hard to believe, especially when you are a heartless monster. You don't even _have_ a heart, let alone care for anyone."

"Ouch, that really stung," Tom said, with a theatrically wounded expression. "How can you _ever_ say a thing like that?"

"I hate you."

"I hate you too, dear. Whatever feeling you have towards me is mutual."

"And if I say I love you?" Harry gritted out.

"Then I love you too."

Harry let out a soft, pained sigh. _Tom was the most annoying creature alive, he'd give him that._ "Voldemort sent me to bed, in case you didn't hear him properly. To obey his command, I have to sleep, and with you here, I _cannot_ sleep. I'd appreciate it if you can go away. Oh, and close the door behind you."

"The last time I checked," Tom said, "you did not care for Voldemort's orders."

"Well, I do now, especially when they actually benefit me."

"I know you are stomaching anger, resentment, hurt, hatred and whatever other emotion you're feeling right now," Tom said. "It is never good to go to sleep without unwinding that knot."

"Since you have pinpointed my emotions with such accuracy…" Harry said sarcastically, "you do realise they are either resulted from your actions or are directed at you?"

"All the same, I am here if you want to talk."

"My," Harry said sardonically, "don't you sound like a protective mother hen? I never saw you as the comforting type, or the talking type. Besides, I do not want to talk. What I _do_ want is for you to get out of my bedroom."

"You misunderstand me, Harry," Tom said silkily. "I was not asking for your permission. I am not going until I get the results I want."

"Then you will be here for the whole night."

"And you will not be sleeping for the whole night," the Slytherin countered. "I trust you will not be feeling too well in the morning. I, on the other hand, do not require much sleep."

Harry sighed again. There was some truth in his words. He would not leave until Harry gave him what he wanted. "What _do_ you want?"

"For you to talk –"

"I am talking."

"– about your emotions."

"What _do_ you want me to say? 'I hate you with a vengeance because you betrayed me and handed me over to Voldemort, the beast who wants to skin me alive'?"

"Well," Tom said wryly, "that is better than nothing. At least now I know you are sulking because you think I have no care for your well being. You truly are fastidious, have I ever told you that?"

"I am _not_ sulking, thank you very much!"

"No, you're not sulking; you are just naturally grouchy," Tom said. "The truth is, I really do not want you damaged. What fun would it be if I accidently damaged my toy?"

Harry snapped his narrowed eyes onto the elder Slytherin instantly.

"Just teasing…" Tom reassured. "I arranged everything with the Dark Lord beforehand. I made sure he did not imprison us the moment he got his hands on us."

"I know you did." Harry hissed viciously through his teeth. "It does not pardon your actions though."

"My unpardonable actions were so that you did not get captured and killed by the old codger who you thought was the essence of goodness. I risked myself in bargaining with Voldemort so that he would take you in. For all we knew, he could have ignored my offers, however tempting they were, and done… something else."

Harry opened his mouth but found he did not have anything to say against that. He closed it again.

"Why do you think Voldemort has not yet extracted his revenge? Why do you think you are not writhing under the Cruciatus Curse this very moment?" Tom said. "I made him promise, under the Unbreakable Vow, that he would excuse all of your past crimes."

"That is very saintly of you, Tom," Harry said, with a hint of dryness. "But what about _new_ crimes?"

Riddle had the grace, feigned or not, to look awkward. "He would never have agreed if I took that right from him –"

"It is not a right!" Harry interrupted.

"– fine, _power_," Tom amended, "from him. However, I truly doubt he would punish you for no reason. He would not want to break his own Horcrux. Just watch your steps, _and_ tongue, and I'm sure you will be in good health."

"That isn't very assuring."

"Forgive me," Tom said, in an irritated tone, "but it is the best I can do. Besides, I am not immune to any punishment he decides to give me either, you know."

"He would never punish you," Harry said. "You are _literally_ him!"

Tom hesitated. Harry did have a point. "I'm not him. I'm his Horcrux. Technically, I am him as much as you are him. I just happen to share his appearance…and personality."

"I am sure you already know it, but I _loathe_ Voldemort. I will be getting out of his rotten home at the first chance I get," Harry said. "You're not stopping me."

"That means I will die," Tom deadpanned. "Hmmm? Do you want that?"

Harry was reluctant on answering his question. Somehow, morally, it did not feel right to let the young Dark Lord die after… "Why the _hell_ did you have to make an Unbreakable Vow on my behalf?" he demanded, instead.

"It was a part of the bargain."

Harry groaned.

"So you will be staying with Voldemort in the foreseeable future," Tom said lightly.

Harry wished Tom would stop repeating 'the foreseeable future'. It made it sound as though he would remain here until he was so old that his birth certificate expired. And for all he was concerned, he did not plan on hanging around. He would find a loophole to the Vow, a way that would get him out of this hellhole without killing Tom Blasted Riddle.

"I'll stay for tonight," he said quietly. "You can go now."

Satisfied now that he had gotten what he wanted, Tom left the room with a smug expression on his face.

After make sure that Riddle _actually_ was gone, Harry undressed and buried himself underneath the covers of the bed. It enclosed around him like a soft cocoon, soothing against his skin.

He dug his fingers into the pillow and muffled his face with the cover. Hopefully, he would not have nightmares.

God, he dreaded the next morning. He wished dawn would never come…

**...**

Sadly, dawn did come. What was even more unfortunate was that Harry woke up, involuntarily, at the crack of dawn.

When he sat up, the room was dim; for a moment he did not realise where he was. It took a while for the awareness to sink in. _Oh, brilliant. _Now that he was awake, he could not get back to sleep again.

He wrenched the drapes aside and climbed out of bed. Dear Merlin, he hoped that Voldemort was not an early riser. He dressed quickly and smartly.

Soon he was ready and out the door, free to roam in the dark corridors before anyone else stirred.

The manor was grand, on the inside just as much as it looked splendid on the outside. Voldemort certainly knew where to make his home, Harry would give him that. But the dreary colours decorating the wallpapers and the old fashioned portraits were starting to give him a headache; he personally would have preferred a brighter setting.

The first rays of sunlight had probably already made their way across the plains, but very few actually hit the manor. It was just that gloomy, Harry supposed. A dark creature like Voldemort would not be able to thrive anywhere else.

Truthfully, the manor was not just gloomy in the early morning. It was also sinisterly quiet. No birdcalls could be heard from outside – and honestly, Harry didn't know whether birds even flew in the patch of sky above the manor.

It seemed as if the entire world was silent, or the manor was simply holding its breath. Even the tiny creaks of the floorboards sounded loud to Harry's ears. It was as though he was the only person alive. _If only, _he thought.

He wanted to take a small walk to stretch his legs. Before he did that, however, he made sure to check whether his wand was tucked securely up his sleeve.

In a house like this, there were sure to be many sleeping Death Eaters. Perhaps Bellatrix would leap out at him from a corner (as unlikely as it seemed) and he would be ready.

Harry strolled up and down many different flights of stairs to ease the boredom growing on him. He was about to turn around and saunter back when a flicker of light caught his attention.

Concentrating on it, he tracked it back to its source. It was a light leaking from under a door. Seemingly, he wasn't the only soul who was awake; whoever occupied the room had to be conscious too.

In the next moment, he comprehended with dawning alarm that the room belonged to Voldemort. After half a decade his memory was getting a bit rusty – but how could he forget where the Dark Lord's office was located?

As he listened carefully, he heard voices coming from the room. Voices. Not just Voldemort's; there were two. If he strained his ears hard, he could _just_ make out a few of the words.

"My Lord, here is the parchment you requested," came a female voice. Harry thought it sounded rather young – and not at all like Bellatrix's.

There was no reply or any words of gratitude but Harry could hear the rustling of paper as someone – possibly Voldemort himself – accepted the parchment. Then, silence fell again.

The female voice was the first to interrupt it. "My Lord, you seem so preoccupied lately…"

A few seconds went by, and there was nothing. And then: "Do I?"

Ringing silence…again. It wasn't the tense type of silence Harry could remember experiencing while he was still Lord Voldemort's apprentice; rather, it was an absent-minded sort of silence. As if Voldemort was focusing on something else and speaking very inattentively to whomever the female was.

"Yes, my Lord, begging your pardon."

"Hmmm…"

Again, the Dark Lord sounded distracted.

"If you don't mind me inquiring, my Lord, what is keeping you so engaged these days?" the female said lightly.

"Nothing that worries you."

_How strange, _Harry thought. Voldemort was answering in such short sentences. It was so unlike the banters he used to hold with the Dark Lord. _How people change._

"Yes, my Lord," the female said dutifully.

From what Harry had heard, the female sounded so eager to please her lord. He could practically hear the cogs of her mind whirling while she tried to think of a conversation that would divert the Dark Lord from whatever he was doing.

However, before she managed to get a word in, Voldemort had ordered, "Go tell the elves to start preparing breakfast. We have a guest."

"But my Lord, the elves know when to start."

_"Go."_

Harry slipped back into the shadows when Voldemort said this. And not a moment too soon. The door had opened and the female stepped out, her figure vague in the darkness. Harry's own mind was spinning; Voldemort had become so curt and business-like. Not at all like the wizard who had played with his mind so many years ago. And yet…Voldemort had not been any different from himself the night before. Things were definitely very weird.

He stepped from the shadows and was about to head back when a hand grabbed his shoulder none-too-gently from behind.

He reacted automatically, as one should when in such a dangerous place, and his reflexes kicked in all on their own. His arm snapped out and seized the wrist on his shoulder and pinned it back in such a way that it caused the owner of the wrist light pain.

"Let go of me, you filthy lowlife. I'll curse you." Her voice, up close, was eerily familiar.

Harry let go of her wrist and twisted round so that he was facing her. Pale, platinum blonde hair, freezing amber eyes, petal lips, and a cold, haughty composure. Ah, he knew who it was. Daphne Greengrass. He was not at all surprised to see her.

It seemed she did not quite have the same response as him. Her features, which had been practised to disguise shock, betrayed her emotions entirely as her delicate mouth fell agape in a mixture of astonishment and fury.

She made an odd noise at the back of her throat that made Harry wonder if she was choking on her own words.

Finally, she snarled at him, "Harry Potter."

Her hostility did not catch him off guard. He could remember the drama between them all too well, and he had no fond memories of the Slytherin ice queen. Daphne, who had done all in her power to cause him trouble, had once stolen his memories, informed Voldemort of his misconducts, tricked him in the body of a little girl and done so much more.

If it was possible, he detested her even more than he hated Tom.

"Congratulations." Harry laughed openly, cruelly. "You know my name."

"Harry Potter," she said again, pressing all her abhorrence for him into the two words. Her voice dripped with venom. "What are you doing here?"

"Voldemort invited me back." On second thoughts, he added for effect, "With open arms."

"The Dark Lord?" Daphne demanded, shrilly.

"Of course the Dark Lord. Your master. Don't you know him?"

He could hear the loud clench of Daphne's teeth as she forced them against each other. He was surprised none of them fell out at the hard impact.

"You insolent little –" Daphne looked so furious that Harry could not help but stifle a chuckle. Not very successfully. "You –"

"I'll see you at breakfast." He waved amiably at her and strolled away, to the pleasant stunned silence. It was even better than victory music to his ears.

_One point to Harry. Zero points to Greengrass._

If he was going to stay here for a long time he promised himself that he would get that girl back.

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**Please review! If you have any suggestions about anything that I can write about that happens between Harry and Daphne please don't hesitate to tell me! I want to add a bit of rivalry between those two.**


	13. Revenge

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Hello! I'm impressed with the number of reviews you guys gave me, and I'm so ****_pleased! _****I feel like I can kiss you all! Special thanks to ChizomenoHime, LadyFlorentine, boblove321 and heh, who are some of my most faithful readers! Naturally, it would have been rude to let everyone wait too long - so I hurried. Hope this chapter is okay, and it'll be great if you can keep up the reviews!**

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The flower garden, if it could be called by such name, was paradise on earth; it was gigantic, stretching to meet the estate of the manor.

The last time Harry had been here, it had been overflowing with elegant blossoms and trees, all equally pleasing to the eye, with a palpable taste of orderliness. Now, as he stood in the heart of it again, it seemed like the florae had only grown evermore beautiful during his leave.

Near the very centre was a marble fountain, characterised by a life-like statue of Hades wielding a staff from which crystalline water spilt. To its right leaned a cherry blossom tree, its delicate trunk slanting towards the fountain.

Although it had been five years ago since he last saw it, the memory was imprinted perfectly in his mind.

The outer rim of the garden were guarded by the traditional favourite of cultured gardens; the Bleeding Heart, with its refined, almost fairy-like flowers dangling.

The entire expanse of the garden was masked securely by a range of different trees from the sun, creating a dappled or shadowy shade in which a seeker could seek privacy.

Perhaps that was the reason Harry was here now. It was ironic, really, how his very first visit to the garden had also been spurred by the promise of privacy. If he recalled accurately, last time it had been the Dursleys' deaths that had troubled him, shaken him to the very core.

The deaths of his uncle, aunt and cousin had long drifted from his mind. It did not distress him anymore. He had never been particularly fond of them; they hadn't been the most generous type of Muggles. Oh well, people said time healed all wounds, and their deaths had been over half a decade ago.

Still…he could not help but wonder…did time _really_ heal all wounds? Unquestionably, the torture marks from Voldemort had long faded, but why could he not control his fear of the Dark Lord? He actually _cringed_ from his touch. It was pathetic.

He remembered that even at the young age of eleven he had only felt unease around Voldemort. How did unease, especially as Harry continued aging, evolve to fear?

Perhaps the wounds remain. Perhaps in time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covered them with scar tissue and the pain went to sleep.

Tragically, the pain had been reawakened now.

Harry could not bear being in the same manor as the Dark Lord, being under his power, let alone being in the same room as him. The night before, when Voldemort had hugged in him in power play, his first impulse had been to scratch the wizard in the face and flee. How could Tom expect him to stay forever?

Truthfully, he had no intention of killing Tom. In fact, the older Slytherin was the only thing that gave him any reason to remain, at all. Voldemort had won once again; he had managed to chain Harry to a tight prison with no visible bounds and restrictions but… Tom was his restriction. Dear Merlin, Harry hated Tom.

Suddenly, he tensed. _Oh brilliant, to speak of the devil's spawn. _Why Tom had to sneak up on him at the most inappropriate of times, he didn't know.

"Harry, Harry," Tom chided softly from behind him, "what are you doing out here all alone?"

If there was a voice that bugged him most in the world at that very second, it _had_ to be Tom's. Harry turned slowly until his eyes rested smoothly on top of the future Dark Lord's, and he stared piercingly at him.

"Usually the word 'alone' has two respective definitions. One suggests that someone is lonely, has no friends and is forced to be by oneself, and the other means that someone is being bothered by too many irksome companions and voluntarily _chooses_ to be alone," Harry said matter-of-factly. "I like to think that I am the latter."

Tom's blue eyes sparkled charismatically at him from under thick eyelashes. "Surely you are not hinting that I am unwanted company? Do you have any idea what people would _give_ for my presence?"

"I have no idea."

"I can see that." Tom smirked infuriatingly. "Tell me, Harry, what is disturbing you now?"

Harry heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes at the young man. _By staying, I am sacrificing everything for you, duh. _But of course, he couldn't say that out loud. Instead, he said simply, "Your presence."

Tom sniggered. "My presence is _intoxicating_. Ask any female."

"Your arrogance knows no boundaries," he said.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Tom purred, sweetly. "Although you, my dear, have incredibly _low_ self-esteem."

A grown emerged from between his teeth. "No, I'm average," Harry shot back. "I'm just surrounded by people who have heads twice the sizes of their bodies."

"Oh? That's strange," Tom commented, flippantly. "I have not seen anyone like that lately. Maybe you need your glasses checked if you're starting to imagine things?"

"I'll name a few," Harry said. "Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Daphne Greengrass…"

"Greengrass?" Tom's eyes glistened in comprehension. "Voldemort's pet dog." His voice was laced with amusement. "She is one of the politest servants around here. Never questions any of the Dark Lord's decisions. If she isn't careful, she'll become a second Bellatrix one day."

"Oh, I daresay she will," Harry remarked dryly. "I bumped into her this morning."

Tom arched an eyebrow and waited for Harry to continue. Harry didn't. "Anyhow, breakfast is ready and the Dark Lord expects you to join us."

"So you're running his errands now?"

"Do not be ridiculous," Tom said mordantly. "I volunteered."

"Do I have to come?" Harry challenged.

The Slytherin Heir faked consideration. "Feel free to ignore his requests – but I wouldn't be surprised if I were you when Voldemort throws a hissy fit and comes out himself to drag you to the dining room."

Harry glared.

—0O0—

Through the gaping door, Harry could see the long dining table set for four. At the head of the table was Voldemort, in his cold glory.

Harry pinpointed a female sitting on the Dark Lord's left hand side. A small snarl wrung instinctively across his face. Daphne Greengrass.

She was speaking softly to her master, whose eyes flickered from corner to corner of the room. Voldemort had a disturbingly uninterested expression on his fine features; it was a look that Harry had rarely witnessed before, and it took him off guard.

As soon as Tom, who had always had a dramatic flair, left Harry's side and stepped elegantly into the room, Voldemort's head snapped up. It was almost alarming, the lightning way the Dark Lord had responded to his younger version.

"Where is Harry?" Voldemort's tone darkened ominously when Tom did not reply. "The wayward brat, he refuses my hospitality _again?"_ There was the sound of a chair being thrust backwards, and the Dark Lord stood up, forebodingly. "I will get him myself."

"My Lord," Daphne said gently from her seat, "there is no need for you to waste so much effort on Potter. If you allow me, I will retrieve and bring him back for you. And I daresay I can teach him a memorable lesson… if you wish."

The jaws of Voldemort tightened distinctly.

Tom, armed with a charming smile, turned to the furious Dark Lord. "Please don't fret, my Lord; Harry is here. I managed to persuade him."

Voldemort smoothed his temper, and sat down. "Clever boy, Tom. Get him in here."

Harry guessed that it was the cue for him to come in. In spite of himself, he was relieved he had listened to Tom. The thought of Voldemort hauling him to breakfast…it was too embarrassing.

"Good morning, Harry," Lord Voldemort greeted lightly, his voice holding none of the threat that had been there before. The change was chilling. "You slept well, I hope?"

"I did."

"Good, good. Good to hear." He smiled, and gestured at the empty seats. "Come here, Tom, sit next to me. And you, Harry, next to Daphne."

Daphne sent him a glare of extreme dislike, and folded her hands primly on the table. Harry had his own objections about the seating plan – but at least he was not sitting next to Voldemort, therefore, he wasn't about to complain. He sat, quickly, before the Dark Lord could change his mind.

The first time Harry was here, it had been dinner; he could remember Bellatrix, with her excessively curly hair tied in an intricate chignon, Snape with a glowering expression, Daphne Greengrass looking nonchalant, and Lucius Malfoy.

Suddenly, Harry wondered whether Lucius was inside this manor, somewhere.

"My, is this not a rather interesting position we find ourselves in?" Voldemort said. "Five years ago, I would not have thought this possible…but alas, it is. Let us refresh our memories with introductions. Daphne, you do remember Harry?"

Daphne stirred from beside him, seemingly thrilled that her lord was finally directing a question at her, and yet, Harry could feel the anger rolling off her in waves at the fact that the question concerned _him_. "Who can forget Harry, my Lord?" Daphne replied. "He had quite the influence on us."

Harry felt inward coils of faint annoyance at the way Daphne sought to bring him down, even now. Her words were clearly suggestive, reminding Voldemort that he had been a traitor, had _influenced_ the Dark Lord's success into downfall.

Who in Merlin's Beard did Daphne believe she was? Harry gritted his teeth. He would make sure she was brought down a few rungs.

"Yes," Voldemort agreed evenly, without any menace, "he did."

"And…you must be Mister Riddle," Daphne said gracefully, extending her hand towards Tom across the table.

Tom betrayed no sign of surprise, but Harry could tell that he was, by the extra blinks of his eyes. Ever the gentleman, Tom stretched forward and kissed it neatly in the traditional Pureblood acknowledgement.

A soft pink glow spread across Daphne's cheeks, and it took a few minutes for Harry to realise that the girl was blushing. He felt like gagging, even if it _had_ been Pureblood custom.

"Miss Greengrass…I did not realise we had already been properly introduced to one another," Tom said. "The night before yesterday was exceedingly rushed and the Dark Lord had business to attend to with me."

Harry saw Voldemort observing the two carefully from his seat, with amusement constantly flitting in those cold blue orbs.

"We _haven't_ been introduced, not formally at least, but I managed to catch your name. The Dark Lord seems very fond of you." Daphne glanced sideways at her lord, and received an entertained look. She seemed to take it as encouragement. "Please, Tom, call me Daphne."

"Naturally…as you wish." Tom smiled again, alluringly.

Voldemort raised his fork. "Let us get to breakfast or it may go cold."

The conversation was awkward; it was difficult to find an appropriate topic, and Harry determined himself to talking as little as possible to the Dark Lord. Sadly, the Dark Lord did not seem to have the same intention in mind. In fact, judging by the number of questions directed at Harry, he seemed to have the _opposite_ intention.

"So, Harry, where were you this morning?" Voldemort asked.

Harry froze at the query. "In the garden, you know, the one with Hades in it –" He never got to finish his sentence.

"Really?" asked Daphne, with feigned interest. "When I saw you, you were outside the Dark Lord's office."

His blood boiled. Damn Greengrass and her need for vengeance. He had an irrational urge to tear her tongue out from her mouth – but even that was too late. Voldemort was already scrutinising him hungrily.

"Ah, you must be an early riser, Harry," Voldemort commented. "I am fascinated by where you went this morning. And what were you doing? Outside my office?"

Daphne looked abnormally pleased. Harry was ready to bet that she hoped that Voldemort would jump to the conclusion that he was eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Taking a walk." Harry blinked innocently up at the Dark Lord. "A little morning walk. Call it a coincidence that I happened to walk right past your office."

"And what were you doing in the garden?"

Voldemort was talking casually as one would about the weather – but to Harry's ears it sounded like an interrogation. Perhaps he was simply being paranoid, but he would rather be accused of paranoia than carelessness when Voldemort was involved.

"Admiring your flowers." Harry forced a grin. "They look nice, especially in the morning." He deliberately took a piece of toast, buttered it and took a bite, as to avoid Voldemort's probing eye contact.

"Can you please pass the butter, Harry?" Daphne asked, at that moment.

The butter was directly in front of him, and if Daphne could be bothered to reach all across the table for a kiss from Tom, he did not see why she could not get the butter herself. All the same, he handed it to her.

"Thank you."

Harry turned away to speak to Tom. A few moments later, he was distracted by another one of Daphne's requests. "Sorry, can you please pass me the bacon and salt?"

"Sure." Harry pushed it in her direction.

"You see, my Lord," Tom was saying to Voldemort, "I do pride myself on educating him well."

Harry stifled a sigh. Tom was boasting about him as if he was some shiny object again. It got tiresome from time to time, but Tom had never managed to throw off the habit.

"I am sure you do," Voldemort said. "So, Tom, being the busy person that you are, do you have any plans for today?"

"I cannot say I have many, not today, but I was hoping to take Harry around the manor to meet some of your followers – Bellatrix, Lucius, and Severus, in particular."

Harry's ears perked up. "Professor Snape is here?" he asked, incredulously.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "It seems our Harry very is fond of my best Potions master. Of course Severus is here. He has his own laboratory, his own storage and own equipment. Why would he want to leave?"

"Harry, can you please pass the pepper?"

Daphne's voice was beginning to grate on his nerves. He had lost count of how many times she had asked him to pass something.

To his deep displeasure, the pepper that Daphne asked him to 'pass' was all the way over on the bare space between the Dark Lord and Tom. He would have asked Tom to pass it to Daphne if it was not for the fact that Voldemort was engaged in a heavy conversation with his younger counterpart.

Harry gave Daphne an artificially syrupy smile and reached for the pepper.

Unfortunately, Voldemort had noticed his struggles and broke away from the discussion. "Oh, Harry, you could have simply _asked_."

Harry reddened in mortification. The Dark Lord placed it tenderly in his palm, as if he was some _damned little kid_, and patted him on the arm.

He fought the urge to draw his arm back too quickly. And when Lord Voldemort carried on his chat with Tom, Harry shoved the pepper in Daphne's direction.

She truly was the most vexatious _hag_ he had ever encountered, and yet he could not say anything without breaking the civility, and it would reflect badly on _him_.

The rest of the meal passed casually with relaxed exchanges. And Harry realised that Voldemort's attempts to inquire for his personal fine points was not nearly as aggravating as Daphne's continuous requirements.

"Will you please pass me the jam, Harry?"

"Will you please give me the tarts, Harry?"

"Will you hand me the sugar jar?"

"And the cheese, sorry, can you pass it?"

"Oh, excuse me, but can you get that plate for me?"

"Sorry to interrupt, Harry. I was just wondering if you can reach the spoon. Would you mind passing it to me?"

Harry could feel his patience running out. It was stretching, elongating like a delicate little elastic. Daphne would suffer if she pushed him past his limits. Anger was chewing at him with each request.

Finally, Daphne pleasantly asked him to pass yet another item in that sickening voice of hers. "Harry, can you please get me the teapot? Watch out, it's a bit hot."

That was it. His patience snapped like the piece of elastic.

"Of course," he answered sweetly, and reached for the teapot. _Ah, excellent, it was still very hot. _He took it by the handle and leaned over to Daphne. "I'll just pour it for you…" He grasped her petite cup with a kind smile.

And then…

He poured the hot tea, the entire potful, all over Daphne Greengrass' lap.

She leapt up with a most un-ladylike snarl and flung the empty teapot without concern for the table's other occupants, across the floor.

Harry dearly hoped it was painful…but the expression on Daphne's haughty face was priceless and he barely managed to avoid doubling over with laughter.

When Daphne realised the scene she had caused, it was too late, and the Dark Lord had his disbelieving gaze fixed on her.

Harry bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The moment would have been ruined if he had giggled out loud.

_The hag deserved it._

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**Please review! Until next time!**


	14. Conflict

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Yay! Cheer with me! Can you guess the number of reviews I got, all thanks to you? It's like...the most amazing number ever since the first chapter!**

**You guys are gorgeous. Truly. If you ever want me to update another chapter, just say the word and I will do it!**

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**Sorry about the long Author's Note, and I guess I should stop blabbering, but I updated faster because you guys deserve it.**

**Hugs and kisses,**

**Hermione Prime**

**P.S. I hate to sound like a greedy brat... or like Daphne Greengrass... but please keep up your reviews! **

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_"Will you please pass me the jam, Harry?"_

_"Will you please give me the tarts, Harry?"_

_"Will you hand me the sugar jar?"_

_"And the cheese, sorry, can you pass it?"_

_"Oh, excuse me, but can you get that plate for me?"_

_"Sorry to interrupt, Harry. I was just wondering if you can reach the spoon. Would you mind passing it to me?"_

_Harry could feel his patience running out. It was stretching, elongating like a delicate little elastic. Daphne would suffer if she pushed him past his limits. Anger was chewing at him with each request. _

_Finally, Daphne pleasantly asked him to pass yet another item in that sickening voice of hers. "Harry, can you please get me the teapot? Watch out, it's a bit hot."_

_That was it. His patience snapped like the piece of elastic. _

_"Of course," he answered sweetly, and reached for the teapot. Ah, excellent, it was still very hot. He took it by the handle and leaned over to Daphne. "I'll just pour it for you…" He grasped her petite cup with a kind smile._

_And then…_

_He poured the hot tea, the entire potful, all over Daphne Greengrass' lap. _

_She leapt up with a most un-ladylike snarl and flung the empty teapot without concern for the table's other occupants, across the floor. _

_Harry dearly hoped it was painful…but the expression on Daphne's haughty face was priceless and he barely managed to avoid doubling over with laughter._

_When Daphne realised the scene she had caused, it was too late, and the Dark Lord had his disbelieving gaze fixed on her. _

_Harry bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The moment would have been ruined if he had giggled out loud. _

_The hag deserved it._

Daphne Greengrass, a _witch_ in all senses of the word, including every negative definition, had earned it, well and truly warranted the tribute. Harry genuinely regretted that he did not pour the boiling tea into her blonde tresses – but even _he_ could not pull it off as an accident.

Still, the image of the burned, humiliated and seething female was going to last a magnificently long time in Harry's mind. Naturally, he would have preferred seeing Daphne as a charred, blackened vegetable, singed from head to toe… but one shouldn't expect too much. Though, perhaps he would light her on fire next time.

Setting her on fire was a brilliant idea. The gears in his brains were already whirling speedily like an engine, marvelling at different methods of degrading Greengrass.

_Oh well… _he would have plenty of time to come up with something fantastic. If Tom was right, and he normally was, the git, then Harry could well be staying as Voldemort's guest for a month or more.

Evening the score between him and Daphne with some justified retaliation seemed like a wonderful way to kill time while he was here.

No doubt Daphne would try to strike at him, but if he could not deal with a conceited vixen he could rightly be a pathetic fool.

Being bested by the nasty excuse of a woman was vivid in his memories – but now, he had returned. The tables were about to be turned… and he just hoped Daphne would be crushed underneath when they did.

Harry had only just mastered his bubbling mirth, which had threatened to spill out of his mouth, when the incensed look on Daphne's face nearly set him off again.

Her Ladyship was bursting at the seams, appearing as if she was ready to storm on to a warpath.

Her cool, calm and collected composure had all but vanished into thin air. Harry would not have been surprised if she started frothing at the mouth.

Suddenly, the room fell silent.

As the empty teapot slowly rolled on the ground, Daphne attempted to regain whatever was left of her poor dignity and ask for the forgiveness of the Dark Lord.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord," she said quietly.

Lord Voldemort arched his disbelieving eyebrows, thrown aback by the turn of events; or at least as surprised as he could be. He glanced away from his apprentice and fastened his scrutiny to the delicate teapot, on which was a splitting crack.

"I do beg your pardon," Daphne repeated. "Harry's hand _accidentally_ slipped, and the tea spilled. It was improper; I should not have acted so dramatically. It will not happen again."

Inwardly, Harry rolled his eyes. It was to be expected that Daphne would pin anything she could to him. At least she had not _outright_ accused him of assaulting her… though her wording was almost as good as a real accusation.

Still, even if she did outright accuse him, nothing could be traced back to him; Daphne would simply have shamed herself by what seemed like a failure to accept responsibility. Nevertheless, her accusation might have evoked a suspicion in the Dark Lord; Voldemort had always distrusted him.

Voldemort's fingers grazed his yew wand which had been placed beside him, and a soft sigh escaped his colourless lips.

Harry was not sure whether Voldemort intended to pick up the wand to curse his female apprentice or to fix the teapot…

But whatever the Dark Lord's purpose had been, he drew his hand back, away from the wand.

"Clean up the mess," Voldemort ordered, straightening the tablecloth in front of him.

Daphne had pulled out her wand obediently and was about to vanish the teapot when Voldemort said again, "Take that to the kitchen and let the elves throw it away."

For a flitting second, Harry thought he saw bitterness dart quickly across Daphne's face before disappearing equally fast. She gave a tight nod in her master's direction and reached down to pick up the pot, cupping the broken shards between her bare hands.

"I'll be back, my Lord." Daphne kept her head low and her dainty neck bowed as she departed, meekness in her body language.

Harry wondered whether an ordinary person ought to have felt sympathy towards her. He did not think he was a cruel person – but he had never felt any _less_ sorry.

Greengrass might have been humble while facing the Dark Lord… but then so was Bellatrix. And Harry was aware of the black heart beating fervently in Bellatrix's chest. She would have no qualms about killing a child.

"Take your time," Voldemort said, aloofly.

It sounded almost kind. However, coming from the dark wizard, Harry knew it was anything but.

When Daphne had gone, Voldemort twisted to face Harry. "Breakfast did not go as smoothly as I had hoped. I cannot say I expected to see flying teapots. Nonetheless, I do hope you have enjoyed your meal."

"It was exceedingly agreeable, my Lord," Tom said. "I'd appreciate it if you can help me express my gratitude to the house elves."

"Nice to hear," Voldemort answered back. Eerily, he never once took his eyes off Harry while replying.

A sensation of discomfort was beginning to creep up Harry's spine; he realised the Dark Lord expected a form of response from him. He was reluctant to give it but he felt compelled by the intense stare.

"Thank you," he said stiffly. "I liked the strawberry tarts best."

From behind Voldemort, Tom bequeathed Harry with a wide smirk. "You charmer," he silently mouthed.

Harry glared darkly.

With a lifted eyebrow, Voldemort recaptured his attention. "Daphne has this ridiculous habit of laying blame on others. I personally thought it rude of her to directly say _your_ hand slipped."

Whereas the Dark Lord's tone was disapproving, blunt and explicitly honest, reprimanding the behaviour of his apprentice, every detail in this situation signalled Harry to speak with caution.

Firstly, although Voldemort had phrased his comment deceptively in a simple statement and not a question, Harry had paid careful attention to it.

They all knew that Daphne had implied Harry's slip of hand as being purposeful. She had laid heavy emphasis on the keyword, "Harry's hand _accidentally_ slipped, and the tea spilled…"

So naturally Voldemort had his own suspicions about who was responsible and whether Harry had been deliberate.

To remain silent and ignore Voldemort's comment would be excusable but Harry seriously doubted it would do him any good.

On the other hand, he could admit he had purposely poured tea over the girl… as a joke.

_Hah_, fat chance _that_ was going to happen; he might as well put his head on the chopping block before confessing.

Harry had a sneaking idea that this was a test, one of Voldemort's bloody tests, designed to test his cleverness of talking his way out of bad positions… and that Voldemort did not truly care very much about who spilled the tea.

"My Lord," Harry begun, measuring his words prudently, "I've always been tactlessly clumsy… it must run in my blood." He paused long enough to see the looks of amusement on both Dark Lords' faces at the bloodline comment.  
Having fun at the expense of the Potter bloodline was unfortunate, but well worth the entertainment.

"It was unintentional, but I do apologise for the mess I caused Daphne," Harry continued. "The teapot was hot and my hand _did_ slip, on accident, of course. I'd be thankful if you can pass my regret along to Daphne."

The Dark Lord looked strangely satisfied, and Harry wondered whether he had actually, unbelievably, managed to excel the test that Voldemort had laid out for him.

But he was never meant to know, for at that moment, the door swung open and Daphne came in.

"Ah, we were just finishing breakfast," Voldemort said.

"Daphne," Harry said graciously, with remorse that would have made any actor proud. He widened his eyes in a display of innocence. "I'm _so_ sorry I spilled tea over you. I hope it did not hurt."

_He hoped it did._

Daphne returned with a false smile. To Harry it simply seemed like a baring of whitish teeth.

"Do not worry," she said generously, "accidents happen. Who knows? Maybe next time I will be the one apologising to you."

Harry secretly sneered. He could tell her fury swelling beneath those words with double meanings. She wanted to shred him to pieces.

_Oh, let her try._ He would simply counter her effort with double the ruthlessness. If she thought he was an easily defeated moron, he would prove her wrong.

"Thank you, Daphne," he said, misleadingly sincere. "I knew you'd understand."

_Bring it on._

Their eyes met across the room. An invisible light flashed between them.

Daphne tilted her head at him and simpered. "Of course… What sort of person do you take me for? You are _always_ so sweet to me. I treat others the way they treat me."

Harry nodded at her.

It was a declaration of war – but within a few weeks he would make sure Daphne wished she had never challenged him.

—0O0—

"This should be fun, eh?" Harry said wryly.

Tom shot him a highly entertained look. "If walking up to Death Eaters who are out for your blood and asking them about their day is your concept of fun then you have to be more twisted than I previously assumed."

"No more twisted than you," Harry refuted. "If they are out for my blood, why are you putting me on show?"

"It is necessary," Tom said. "They need to realise you are residing inside this manor, and more importantly, that you are here due to the Dark Lord's wishes. We do not want anyone cursing you on accident."

"Is this Voldemort's grand idea?"

"It is," Tom confirmed.

"It is a _stupid_ idea," Harry said firmly. "Parading me around is hardly going to be useful when he can just announce me at the next Death Eater meeting –"

Tom cleared his throat coldly. "It _is_ Voldemort's idea, but it is _also_ my idea."

Harry blinked several times. This was awkward. He had just insulted Tom directly to Tom's own face without knowing it?

"The Dark Lord does not plan on introducing you to his lesser followers until much later. Only the most imperative members of the Inner Circle are to know of your residence," Tom explained impatiently. "He does not trust the fools enough to be assured they will not harm you."

Harry laughed. "Voldemort? Worried about my safety?" Even the thought was hilarious. A few days ago, the Dark Lord had wanted to kill him.

"Your status has changed," Tom said. "For the better or worse, you can decide for yourself… But you are no ordinary person. Nor are you an expendable apprentice like Greengrass. The Dark Lord is _desperate_ to keep you safe, at _all_ costs. You are his Horcrux."

"I'm _honoured_," Harry said sarcastically. "Please tell me he is just as protective of you."

"He is not. You are special." Tom chuckled bluntly at Harry's expression. "He believes I am more… capable of defending myself, and I have far less enemies. You, on the other hand, have made countless enemies – many of whom are allies to the Dark Lord. Not to mention, you are simply not as powerful as I am."

Harry groaned. "I feel privileged."

"You should be," Tom assured him. "Especially since I have been assigned as your protector."

Ringing silence…

"Bodyguard, supervisor, and keeper… whatever you want to call it." Tom arched an elegant eyebrow. "Not pleased?"

Harry didn't feel the need to credit him with an answer. Bloody Voldemort. What in the blazes was he thinking?! Harry was _sixteen_ and did _not_ need a domineering babysitter to look after him.

Tom smirked, revelling in Harry's discomposure. "Don't fret, dear, I'll be by your side _all_ the time."

Harry shook his fist at the arrogant young Dark Lord. "Please do not speak to me," he said. "Every time you open your mouth, I feel dangerously like I want to knock you in the face."

"Well," Tom said slowly, "I hope the first person we meet can jolt you out of your bad mood."

"Who is it?"

"Severus Snape."

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**Gasp! I wonder what will happen next?  
Review! **


	15. Breaking the Ice

**Disclaimer: Thanks to Mrs Rowling, I am given the privilege of toying with her characters.**

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* * *

Severus Snape, skilled Potions master and an austere wizard, was staring at the brass cauldron fixedly, calculating precisely how much longer it would take for the dragon blood to merge with the aconite fluid.

It was taking an unexpectedly, alarmingly, long time…

Snape glanced irritably at the old clock hanging on the dreary grey wall of his workroom. _Tick, tock, tick, tock. _  
The clock hands were moving fast, too fast for his liking. His potion was seven minutes late; it ought to have been ready and bottled minutes ago.

He warily picked up the spoon and dipped it into the concoction, just to test if the proper effects were taking place.

The wooden spoon promptly turned to a fine powder right beneath his hand and slid through his fingers to scatter everywhere.

_Adequate. _At least the unique qualities of the infusion were developing. Or he'd truly be a failure of a brewer.

Working as the Dark Lord's solitary and unsurpassed Potion master had both its merits and its drawbacks. Snape thrust a strand of his greasy hair out of his sallow face.

Lord Voldemort knew his strengths and weakness and his personality to understand that he operated best alone and unaided. The Dark Lord had only one master brewer – and that was him. It wasn't that Voldemort could not afford more; Snape knew that if he thought it could do any good, he would appoint more in an instant.

However, Snape doubted things would progress so well if he was given an assistant. His mind and body was designed to function under the security of solitude. He worked excellently under pressure, and his potions were supreme, the finest, and usually without a single flaw.

Still, from time to time the stress would become difficult even for him. The Dark Lord demanded perfection, _utter_ perfection without a _shred_ of blemish. Snape could tolerate that demand; after all, he was a perfectionist himself.

But as proud as he was of his talents, he could never claim that he was perfect. Nobody was, really. He was a high flyer, but he was _not_, however, the flawless servant Voldemort accepted him to be.

Once, he had accidentally botched a delicate poison that the Dark Lord had specially required. The toxin, complex and intricate, had entailed several days and nights of remaining awake and attentive. In the end, Snape had spoiled the results without knowing so.

When the Dark Lord had used it on one of his prisoners, intending to wrench the truth from the man's lips with the dreadful agony brought on by the potion, it had killed the poor wizard instantaneously.

Needless to say, Lord Voldemort had been _furious_. One would have thought living next to the dark wizard would have numbed him to the sensation of fear, but he had feared that the Dark Lord would force his own wrecked potion down his throat.

Ever since that day, when he had escaped with his life but not without punishment, Snape had made sure his potions never displeased the Dark Lord again.

The man, if he could be called by such a title, that Snape had served half his lifetime did not know the meaning of leniency. For he never showed any. Not to anyone. Ever.

The Dark Lord had often ordered him to prepare Wolfsbane Potions, which took weeks of proficient handling, within one day's short notice.

Snape knew his lord was fond of gifting Greyback Wolfsbane Potions on full moons for him to retain his conscious mind. Not so that the sick werewolf would refrain from murder, but because he could attack more civilians that way.

It was almost ironic, how the Dark Lord could tame even lycanthropy and bend it to his will, and harness for his benefits.

Severus had learned to stock plenty of everything in his storeroom; in case the need ever came up.

There wasn't many times when the Dark Lord requested something that he did not have in his storage – and that was the reason he was working feverishly. The potion in the cauldron, being an exotic drink, was not in his storage

He stirred the cauldron gently, inspecting the indigo bubbles that emerged at the surface and burst after a few seconds. It seemed like it would be ready in… he looked at the clock again… two minutes.

Just then, raps rained down on his door.

Severus Snape was starting to be fed up with unwanted visitors invading his personal space.

It wasn't that he was a grumpy old bat, or because he lacked appreciation for good company; it was just that good company tended to be quite rare and largely lacking in this manor, and often rather rude.

Namely, Bellatrix Lestrange and other crude, mundane Death Eaters.

Of course, since even Bellatrix was hesitant when it concerned irking Snape to the extreme, she was never a frequent visitor. When she did pop in for the occasional social call, however, Snape would find his day quickly turning sour.

As he stood there, wand in hand, timing the potion, he considered not answering the door. It seemed like the wisest, not to mention, least bothersome choice.

But still…

Snape sent a reluctant look at the cauldron and decided that a few seconds of his absence wouldn't do it much harm.

He stalked towards the door, and grasped the handle, preparing to scare the wits out of whoever dared to distract him from his work. Oddly, the sneering and the glare did its job unusually well with lesser Death Eaters.

Undeniably, no one ever shook in front of him as they did when meeting the Dark Lord, but all in all, Severus Snape believed himself to be intimidating. He hadn't been Hogwarts' most feared professor for nothing.

He ripped the door open, and fixed a glower of dissatisfaction at the guest. He had thought it would have been Bellatrix. Avery. Or Mulciber, and perhaps Rowle. Even Lucius Malfoy. Instead, standing in his doorway was a boy…or maybe a young man who looked to be hardly older than Greengrass.

Perhaps if he had not learned, from experience, to be so vigilant, he would have scoffed and shut the door in the youth's face. Nevertheless, he had planned to demand an answer as to why he was rudely disrupted and then, if there was nothing urgent, send the little brat fleeing.

It was the sound of the adolescent's voice that stopped him. "Ah, Severus, good to see you. I trust you are well… may I come in?"

There was an unforgiving edge to the tone that suggested it really wasn't a question. He studied the teenager closely.

Prominent cheekbones coupled with a high bridged nose. Attractively sharp features. Ebony hair. Pale complexion, as if he had been caressed by death itself.

Strangely, Severus experienced the disquieting sense that he had seen the man before. Everything added up to something so familiar, even the voice… but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"...do I know you?" he asked.

Snape fully expected the young male to nod. He was sure he had seen him – no, _knew_ him from _somewhere_.

The smile that followed was like a shard of glass that pressed deeply into a wound, drawing blood. It wasn't the smile that bothered Snape - it was the eyes. Ruthless beyond measure, more intimidating than his own, gleaming with power. Dangerous.

Snape admonished himself. Dangerous? Intimidating? No. The figure in front of him was no more than a youthful, inexperienced wizard.

"No," the man said softly, shocking Snape. "You do not know me."

"Really?" Snape gave a twisted smile. "I swear I have seen you before."

"There is a very big chance you have," the young man said. "I am one of the Dark Lord's newest recruits. Fledgling Death Eater, you see."

Snape nodded. "And you need my help with…?" For reasons he did not completely know, he kept his voice tight rather than scornful.

"The boy I am supposed to babysit."

The Potions master frowned. "Well, I do not see how I can be much help with that. If you do not mind, I have a potion to get to." He made to close his door.

And found a foot keeping it open.

It took all his self-control not to snarl at the nerve of the new _recruit_. Merlin, the young Death Eater already looked like he owned the world. As much as Snape found himself disliking the man, he hoped that he did not act the same way in front of Voldemort.

Voldemort would not be so lenient.

"You must see him. It is the Dark Lord's orders." Spoken with a quiet confidence and a certain level of coldness.

Snape sighed mentally. His potion would be ruined if he did not return to it soon. Perhaps the fastest way to resolve this would be to cooperate. If it had purely been the arrogant young man, he would have disregarded him – but this was Lord Voldemort's own instructions. He didn't dare ignore that.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Where is the boy?"

**...**

Harry hated the way Tom had spoken to Snape. As if his old professor was dirt beneath his shoes. But even that could not keep his mood low for long.

Tom had insisted that _he_ would reintroduce Harry to Snape, not that Harry understood how that worked since Snape did not even know who _Tom_ was. Well, Snape knew the Dark Lord… but that was beside the point.

He had felt himself tense as he heard the voice of his teacher, which was rather peculiar, really, when one considered that Snape was a cantankerous bat who never allowed anyone to get close to him.

The conversation that had followed had seemed annoyingly long to him. Not to mention that Tom had pushed him out of sight and into the shadows.

It was only when Snape had asked, "Where is the boy?" that Tom finally yanked him sharply by the sleeve to his side.

Harry nearly stumbled at the force, but succeeded in maintaining his balance. His hooded green eyes met effortlessly with Professor Snape's dark ones, and he twitched his lips up into a tiny smile of greeting. "Hello, Professor," he said, slickly.

Snape looked staggered. The little colour in his face drained away, leaving his cheeks pallid as paper. He appeared as though he had seen a ghost… which Harry supposed he might very well have been, since Snape had never been sure whether he had lived or died.

"Hello, Professor," Harry repeated. He saw Tom smirking from the corner of his eye. "Bright day, isn't it? Not that the sunlight is very visible in Voldemort's hole."

The professor winced. "Potter…" he paused, as if getting used to the name again. "Do not call the Dark Lord by such a disrespectful name."

Harry was amused. Apparently old habits died hard. Snape would always be reminding him to be polite. Still, it was difficult not to feel the humour in the situation, especially when he had simply materialised in front of Professor Snape.

"Okay," he said compliantly, all too aware that he would not be keeping to his promise. "Mind if we come in?"

Snape stood aside mutely. His efforts at upholding his composure were limited; he could not speak without seeming like one of those dunderhead First Years.

Tom, the future Dark Lord, promptly swept in. Harry did too, after offering the Potions master a boyish grin.

Voldemort had been right. Snape's potions workroom was lavish, from the sturdy shelves to the wide windows that threw the vast multitude of cauldrons into relief. Harry inspected one of the clear bottles on a table.

Veritaserum. Truth potion. Used for interrogation. No wonder Voldemort had Snape brew these.

"Neat room," Harry commented. He glanced at the rows and rows of books on various potions. "Very, very nice. What say you, Tom?"

"I agree."

Snape didn't say anything. Harry was beginning to find the silence of his old professor the opposite of what the ideal would have been. In fact, the man's lack of speech and the obvious coolness was starting to bother him.

Harry strolled easily over to the only currently boiling cauldron in the room and peeked inside. He did not recognise the liquid but it was a lovely indigo tone. It didn't take a prodigy to guess that the potion was perfect.

"Sir," Harry said urgently, "your potion is turning black. Not many potions take on black as a natural shade. Is it supposed to do that?"

As expected, Snape rushed towards him like a madman, flustered in the anxiety that the concoction had somehow gone wrong. Snape _knew_ that he should not have spent so long talking to the _blasted_ new recruit.

When he got to the cauldron, and was reassured with his own eyes that the potion indeed had _not_ become black, he twisted around to face a wide-eyed and innocently blinking Harry. "What on earth do you mean, Potter?" Snape spat. "That it has gone black?"

"But, sir," Harry protested, "it _was_ black a moment ago. Maybe my eyes are mistaken… I think I might've gotten some of your potion in my eye." He rubbed at it, exaggeratedly.

Snape scowled at him. "Potter…" he began warningly.

Harry's serenity slipped, and suddenly, he could not control his own expression anymore, which crumpled like a Halloween mask. The hilarity of the joke was too much and he doubled over in silent laughter.

Tom was also chuckling.

A glare of daggers was sent in Harry's direction. Snape folded his arms. "Very witty, Potter, very witty," he said sarcastically. "Now…where did you catch that sense of humour?"

Harry pointed at Tom. "Some from him," he managed to say, between huge gasping laughs. "And some from you."

"You do realise, Potter, that my potion is a serious matter?" Snape berated. "Of course, no one expects you to understand with that thick skull of yours in the way…"

Snape continued criticising his lack of intelligence, but Harry knew better.

Because of his _genius_, he had managed to break the ice between the two of them and had gotten Snape to be more of… well… _Snape_.

He could understand why Snape had found him so alien. The difference between him five years ago and the present him was too wide.

With his smooth raven hair, dazzlingly vivid green eyes and a charming smile readily springing to his lips he was ever so unalike the child he had been: gawky, geeky glasses, untameable mane and unpolished manner. They were like two different people altogether.

Harry observed the movements of the Potions master as he shut off the flame and ladled the contents of the cauldron into a glass flask. The top was then screwed on securely. In next to no time, the potion was bottled and set on a shelf.

Then, Snape whirled to scrutinise him. "Potter," he began, "why are you here?"

Harry mentally braced himself. _  
Here come the awkward questions. _

He threw a quick look over his shoulder at Tom, who was leaning unconcernedly against a bookshelf, for help. He got nothing except for an amused smile. "Er…what do you mean?" Harry asked, hoping to stall.

"I mean, Potter, what in the blue blazes are you doing here?" Snape said, brusquely, as if Harry was a particularly dense child.

"Uh…I am here to take a break from my busy life…" Harry trailed off. "You know, from running."

"Running," Snape repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Dare I hope for an elaboration?"

"What can I say? Being chased and hunted by both the Dark Lord and the Light Lord does take its toll on you." Harry shrugged. "Voldemort, the freak, who hated my guts, is now offering me a sanctuary. I took it."

For the last part of his sentence, he got rewarded with a frown from the professor, but luckily, Snape didn't pursue the be-nice-to-the-Dark-Lord matter.

"Slow yourself, Potter," Snape said. "The Light Lord?"

"Dumbledore," Harry said matter-of-factly. "He wants me dead too. Ironic, I know, considering I'm the one who freed him. Oh well, can't expect everyone to be grateful, I guess. He's been stalking me ever since he discovered I'm a Hor –"

Suddenly, Harry slammed his mouth shut, biting down horribly hard on his tongue. A salty, coppery taste invaded his taste buds. He could not believe he had nearly said 'Horcrux'.

From the wrathful look Tom sent him, Harry knew that he had narrowly avoided a road of trouble.

"Potter…" Snape was looking unnaturally pasty, as if he was struggling to keep his breakfast down.

Harry gulped. Surely the beginning of the word had not revealed his secret? Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad. Why could he not keep his damned mouth shut? He was tempted to smash himself over the head.

"Dumbledore discovered you… you are a whore?" Snape's face had twisted into a grimace, as if the very distasteful word had to be forced out his tongue. His professor spluttered. "You forced yourself on him…?"

He felt puzzled. What on earth did Snape mean? When had he ever called himself a _whore_? He had been about to say 'Horcrux'. And, oh God, the very thought made him want to gag, when did he _ever_ force himself on _Dumbledore? Argh._

Disgusting. It was beyond words. How could Snape suggest he –?

_Oh_. Harry realised what stopping in the middle of uttering 'Horcrux' sounded like. He could not believe it. He simply wanted to curl up in a hole and die; he wished the ground could swallow him up.

Tom was silently laughing. Harry had never seen the young Dark Lord express so much glee. The entire expanse of the older Slytherin's face was strained from the effort of not snickering out loud.

"I didn't mean –" Harry muttered angrily at Snape. "I never meant _that_. I was going to say that Dumbledore discovered I was a freak like Voldemort."

Meanwhile, Snape's face had regained some of its colour. "You didn't?" Snape said. "Thank God, Potter. Not even _you_ would lower yourself to such a standard. Still…spawn of a Potter…who knows what you've been up to?"

"You want to know what I've been up to?"

"I want to know how the Dark Lord is extending his hospitality towards his nemesis," Snape corrected.

"Yes, well, I suppose I can tell you that…"

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**Until next time, dear fellas! Review!**


	16. You just don't die

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

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**Warning: down below is excessive drama; very bad for nerves. Consider yourselves warned. ;p**

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Bellatrix and Lucius were next on their list.

Harry could not be less pessimistic about it. If he had it his way, which he did not, he would make double sure that the Black sadist and the albino Minister never crossed his sight again. Ever.

To be fair, he was unfamiliar with Malfoy's style and personality, considering he had seen the man a rare few times and had never bothered to make trivial conversation. Still, from what he had noticed of the ex-Minister, he could conclude that the wizard was a nasty piece of work, high and mighty, and regardless of all but his own benefits.

Malfoy was a supercilious, strutting peacock in silk robes.

He also knew Lucius was a kiss up, in every known sense of the word. Once, he had witnessed the man cowering before Voldemort on his trembling knees and puckering his lips to kiss the hem of his lord's robes – argh – Harry wanted to gag.

Harry would never grasp in his mind why the Dark Lord revelled in having his subjects recoiling at his feet, worshipping and fearing him as if he was God and Satan at the same time. Oh wait…yep; Voldemort had a loaded god complex.

It seemed as if Malfoy's favourite way to pass time was buttering up the Dark Lord with smooth talk.

It was the easiest way to rise up the ranks, Harry supposed, although he suspected Voldemort did not buy it. The Dark Lord simply tolerated the relentless, insincere flattering with stony indifference.

Be it as it may, Lucius Malfoy was a million times milder than Bellatrix Lestrange.

She was an insane woman, if Harry had ever seen one. She could dress as feminine or formal as she liked, and still she would not get rid of the aura of madness encircling her.

Bellatrix Lestrange, however, was immensely loyal to the Dark Lord. Harry had beheld that unwavering, intense, undying devotion first hand. She really was infatuated with Voldemort.

He was almost impressed how Voldemort could enrapture her without lifting a finger, or even trying.

Her faithfulness, sadly, did not make her any less dangerous. If anything, it increased the risk she proved to Harry by the manifold. Even though Bellatrix was unlikely to disobey any order from her esteemed master, she would take things into her own hands if she thought her lord was wronged in any way.

Perhaps this was the reason Voldemort was so paranoid about the safety of his newly discovered Horcrux.

Harry heaved a sigh as he rounded the corridor with Tom. He was sick of being bubble wrapped like some precious chattel. He did not belong to anyone. Voldemort least of all.

He pressed his fingers to his temple.

Merely a few hours had gone by since breakfast, and he felt so tired already. There was too much drama in the Dark Lord's household; first Daphne Greengrass, then Snape…

Come to think of it, he had still not gotten over his embarrassment at the silly, little misunderstanding. Snape's assumption had scarred his mind forever. It was unimaginable… him and Dumbledore. It was just…_eww_. Gross.

Not to mention, Tom had rounded on him the moment Snape's door closed, slapping him sharply on the shoulder. "You imbecile," he had hissed cuttingly. "Do try to think before speaking. Reveal yourself as a Horcrux to one person – in the next moment, everyone knows."

He had to remind himself to get Riddle back for that slap…

"Yes, well, Snape mistook my wording for something else entirely," had been his reply.  
_So embarrassing. How would he ever show his face again?_

To which the young Dark Lord had scoffed. "Count yourself lucky he did."

"Lucky isn't the word I'd choose to describe it." Harry had dealt Tom a withering glare.

Harry fathomed the risk of revealing himself as a Horcrux – and he knew that Voldemort had logical reasons to keep it under wraps. The most prominent one of them being that Harry was his one weakness that any of his Death Eaters could use to exploit.

If they killed Harry, Voldemort would lose one of his Horcruxes.

Obviously, Harry did not give a rat's fart whether Voldemort's Horcruxes died – but he would not put his own life in jeopardy if he could help it.

So, when he said he would explain the truth to Snape, he had lied instead. In a way, it was simply a twisted version of the truth. Harry did not see how it made any difference – after all he had spun the falsehood so flawlessly that Snape would never find out.

"Harry, open the door," Tom commanded.

Harry was startled from his reverie. Oh, bloody great, he was standing outside the room of crazy Lestrange.

"You can go in and introduce yourself to Bellatrix, though I have a lingering suspicion she will recognise you anyway," Tom said. "I'll wander to Lucius' room and escort him to our little reunion. Try to be polite… oh, and Bellatrix has a temper; try not to get killed before I arrive to collect your body."

He listened to Tom's fading footfalls with dread. Oh well, he might as well get this over and done with.

Stretching his hand out, he yanked hard on the doorknob. It swung open slowly.

But it wasn't Bellatrix that greeted his sight. It was Daphne.

The flaxen Slytherin queen leapt up, in a dignified manner, the moment she fixed her eyes on her lifelong nemesis.

Tilting her head, Daphne gave Harry a rigid smile. Harry could feel the probing anger swelling around the young woman as she stared at him. He had no doubts that she would attempt to repay him for the morning's humiliation.

Let her try.

"Harry," she said, coldly. Her amber eyes gleamed like jagged lightning forks. "May I interest you in a cup of tea?"

"It does sound tempting." Harry dealt her a dazzling grin, full of teeth and wholly disingenuous. "Are you quite sure you have not poisoned it?" He inserted a right measure of humour in there.

Daphne sneered. "I have not had the time to, although I did have the idea… It seems befitting, does it not, that you spill tea over my lap and I poison yours?"

Harry forced a throaty laugh. "Hah, why does our drama always revolve around tea? Say, why not cushions and pillows? I can imagine you and I having a pillow fight."

He was struggling to maintain the lightness of the conversation when Daphne seemed so determined to break their civilised facade. As much as he wanted to bait her, now was neither the time nor place for a duel to break out.

"Pillow fight?" Daphne arched a condescending eyebrow. "It seems rather childish."

"We _are_ children."

"_You_ are a child," she corrected cruelly. "_I_ am twenty years old, an adult."

Harry dismissed the information with a careless wave of the hand. "The specific details do not bother me," he said airily, noting the snarl rupturing over Greengrass' lips. "I am here to see Bellatrix… on the Dark Lord's orders."

"I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. Bellatrix is not here."

"Is that so?" Harry lifted his chin upwards. He was slightly surprised.

"Tragically, yes."

Daphne's fingers were inching disturbingly close to her wand; it rested against her legs. She tossed Harry a judging look, which he returned. "So…you are here alone?"

The sinister nature of the question set off alarm bells in his head.

Harry was confident in his abilities as a dueller; he knew he could beat Daphne at her own _childish_ game, but he was not a willing participant. Not at the moment. He was wasting time with Greengrass.

His own hand lingered near his sleeve; the pressure of his wand was there. The distance was slightly further than Daphne had to reach… but he had trust in his reflexes. "I am," he answered coolly. "Are you glad?"

"I am." Daphne mimicked his words. "I can easily manage _you_."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He knew they were straying near forbidden territory, but his tone, polite and amiable, betrayed nothing.

"I mean…" Daphne gazed at him from beneath her dark eyelashes. "…well, I have been trained by the Dark Lord for half a decade."

He felt like chuckling. He had _also_ been trained by a Dark Lord – a younger version, yes, but the Dark Lord nonetheless.

She mistook his amused expression for an insult. Her eyes darkened like a storm cloud. "You are an insignificant brat; out of your depth. Unfit for the Dark Lord's company. Unworthy of tainting his home for the _second time_."

_And so it comes out. _  
Harry had thought Daphne had more self restraint than to play a Gryffindor. Her true purposes had been placed on the table, clear as crystal.

Perhaps her hatred for him ran deeper than he previously assumed.

"I will take that as a compliment," he said.

She hissed. Her refined features warped into something ugly. "How you bewitched the Dark Lord, I do not know, but I do know he will come round eventually and reward you with an excruciating death."

Harry gazed evenly at his childhood rival. _Very well. _  
If she wished to drop all pretences and display her true colours, then he was obligated to play along.

"My, are you suggesting that the Dark Lord has been bewitched by a trivial little boy?" Harry inquired delicately. "It is curious, is it not, when the Dark Lord's own apprentice believes the magnificant, invincible wizard has been thwarted by me? It can almost be regarded as treason."

Fate really was an intriguing creature. Their current discussion held a certain resemblance to the first time Daphne decided to threaten Harry.

If he recalled correctly, five years ago Daphne had led him to the secluded flower garden before quickly covering the subject.

_"Harry Potter… I have heard of your name a long time ago," said Daphne lightly. "Harry Potter, son to a traitorous Death Eater, a substandard Half-Blood, and yet selected by Lord Voldemort to become his junior apprentice."_

_Harry was caught off guard by the expression of superiority and aggression. "Excuse me?" he said._

_"Do I have to repeat myself?" Daphne snarled, loathing etched across her fine features. "I am not to be trifled with, and especially not by a young boy of inferior birth, of no importance to the world, member of a prominent light family, and unfaithful to the Dark Lord in every respect!"_

_Utterly bewildered, Harry looked at her blankly while attempting to figure out what was transpiring. "What are you –?" _

_"You mediocre fool, you are but an inconvenience to me; if I do not eliminate you, my mother undoubtedly shall…" Daphne paused. Perhaps the Dark Lord will even remove you himself when he realises you are of little value."_

_ By now, Harry had recovered from his shock and was retaliating with his own words, "Please, elaborate."_

_"Oh? You still do not understand?" Daphne hissed. "You are competition. Competition for the Dark Lord's attention. I shall conquer you, just as I did when we duelled."_

Greengrass had showered him with demeaning insults of every colourful kind: with abuses hurled at his deceased family followed by death threats. As Harry now thought back, he could not help but feel a stir of fury in his veins.

Tiresomely, Daphne had not stopped there. She had worked hard to get him killed. And almost succeeded. Now that he had returned, she was going to tediously repeat her actions.

"I am not committing treason!" Greengrass snapped tartly. "You disrespectful –"

"You may not be committing treason," Harry said levelly, "but you certainly doubt the Dark Lord's abilities. Am I right?"

"No!" Greengrass snarled. Her eyes were wild, pupils undiluted with anger. Her hands were clenched tightly around her wand, now.

Harry half expected her to start frothing at the mouth like a rabid bitch.

"You are no better than a filthy cockroach!" Daphne spat. Harry shrank back to avoid a cascade of spittle.

_Disgusting_… Of all people, he had not expected Daphne, the proud apprentice, to abandon her manners at a time like this. _She must be upset if she is spewing her saliva everywhere._

"No matter how hard you get stomped on, you just never die, do you?" Daphne had drawn her wand, and Harry was extracting his. "I am going to teach you a memorable lesson you will never forget, you dirty _insect_. I'll _dissect_ you."

Harry sneered at the bloodthirsty promises. "Try; no one is stopping you. Though, as a casual word of warning, do not let the reverse happen. It will not be pretty."

Daphne was pointing her wand directly at his throat, and he at her stomach. The tension was unbearable.

"If you kill me, Daphne, which you cannot," Harry said, "the Dark Lord will tear you apart, limb by limb. I can assure you."

"You wish; pity he cares very little about your safety," Daphne said. "Remember: he was going to kill you himself last time?"

"I remember," Harry said simply, "as clearly as anything, but he's changed his mind since. Surely, he has told you something…? Oh, _wait_… perhaps he does not trust you with confidential information." Harry hoped his remark hurt.

To his triumph, Daphne grimaced. "I am not sure you do not have a death wish, Potter. Tell me, why did you come back? How _dare_ you come back? The Dark Lord's home is not somewhere you can waltz in and out of without consequence."

Harry arched one eyebrow coldly. "Really? Nothing horrifying has happened to me yet. I would like to correct your blissful ignorance; the Dark Lord _invited_ me back on the promise he will not harm a hair on my head."

It was not exactly true…but oh well. He was lying frighteningly frequently these days; if he wasn't careful, it would become his favourite pet pastime.

"Why?" Daphne demanded. "Why does he want you back? And why would you agree?"

Harry shrugged elegantly. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps, the Dark Lord is choosing an heir to take over his fortune, power and heritage, and I happen to be the perfect candidate?"

He was now lying through his teeth – but the furious look on Daphne's face made it worth it.

"You are dreaming, Potter!" she spluttered.

"Am I?"

Daphne steadfastly ignored his taunt. "Who is Tom? He visited the Dark Lord the night before you arrived. Who. Is. He?" She laid heavy emphasis on the last three words.

"Tom Riddle is a friend of mine. A young man I met half a decade ago. Anything else you would like me to answer?" he asked sarcastically.

"Does he have something to do with you being here?"

Harry considered the question for a moment, before deciding to give a rather vague answer. "The Dark Lord favours him."

Suddenly, Daphne Greengrass looked gleeful. "So the Dark Lord is enduring your presence as a favour to Tom?"

He frowned. It seemed she was desperate enough to clutch at anything that even _hinted_ at Voldemort not caring for him. He almost felt sorry for her.

"How old is he?"

"He –" Harry stopped. "_Pardon?"_  
This was odd. _Why on earth would Greengrass want to know Tom's age?  
_"He should be twenty one."

"Thank you for your information," Daphne said, snarling. "Now that we have gotten these matters behind us, would you like to get on with our duel?"

"After you," Harry said icily, with an inclination of his head.

She raised her wand highly. "Reduc –!"

In a split second, both she and Harry lowered their wands simultaneously. The tension that had bubbled up in the room burst as Harry thrust his back under his sleeve while Daphne propped hers on the table.

They both sat down.

Just in time.

The door creaked open a moment later, and Tom Riddle strode inside. He nodded charismatically at Daphne Greengrass, before turning to Harry.

"Lucius Malfoy is unavailable. He is not in his room."

"That is…" Insane laughter threatened to emerge from his throat, at Tom's obliviousness to the events that had taken place. "That is unfortunate. Bellatrix is not here either."

Pale blue eyes scanned his face penetratingly.

"Has something happened?" Tom asked quietly.

"Harry and I were having a cup of tea," Daphne said sweetly, batting her eyelashes in a – _argh_ – seductive way at Tom. "Care to join us?"  
She had shed her venomous skin and replaced it with the mask of the dignified lady in an instant.

"No, thank you," Tom said smoothly. "We have to be going." He bowed at Daphne before heading for the door with Harry.

"Wait, Tom," Daphne called. "Bellatrix and Lucius are together. If your meeting with them is urgent, you most likely will find them in the dungeons. They are dealing with the prisoners."

Tom threw a seemingly grateful smile at back at her. "I appreciate your help. We will head for the dungeons, then."

Thus, they parted.

Harry was beginning to feel the oddness in the situation. Daphne Greengrass had either been unknowingly helpful, or she had gone mad in her anger. How revenge had turned to helpfulness… he did not know. He would never truly understand her… or any other who belonged to the female species.

* * *

**Chapter Challenge: 40 reviews!**


	17. Untouchable One

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me!**

**Congratulations! Give yourselves a pat on the back! I can hardly believe that the Chapter Challenge was actually completed; we got up to forty reviews! Wow. That was a gigantic accomplishment - I cannot express my delight enough.**

**Alright, as a treat, I have written a reasonably longer chapter for you. And we have a new Chapter Challenge.**

**40 reviews or over!**

**Furthermore, Mudblood Slytherin and Proud has a question which some of you may also be confused about.**

**Question: "I wondered if you could address a query I have regarding the Dark Lord's similar appearance to Tom? ****In Chapter One of Ice Crux, you said the Dark Lord "appeared to be in his late twenties, at the very** **most"...If Tom is around 21 according to this chapter, why are none of the characters thinking "that man is identical virtually to the Dark Lord!"? Chapter 15 Snape thought Tom looked familiar but surely convictions should be a certainty that they are possibly the same person if there are only a few years difference in Tom and Voldemort's apparent age?" **

**Answer: When Voldemort drank the potion that allowed him to take on the image of Tom Riddle in his late twenties, his appearance continued aging. Just as Tom continued aging.  
So basically although Tom has nearly caught up with the appearance of Voldemort around the time Harry was eleven, Voldemort now has the appearance of someone in his thirties.**

* * *

Harry grimaced as a wave of musty stench hit his sensitive nose. It was the smell of dead creatures, decaying flesh, and the damp walls that surrounded him.

"Behold the glory," Tom said satirically.

The very air was rusty, moist and cold. Harry involuntarily shivered.

"It is not very glorious compared to the rest of the manor," he said, wrinkling his nose. "The odour, it's _atrocious_. Are there, like, rotting rat carcasses or something?"

Riddle gazed at him calmly. "Dead rats, amongst other things."

A shiver tickled up his spine at the indicative comment. "What other things?" Harry forced himself to ask.

"Oh, small animals, and the occasional human," Riddle replied smoothly, as if he was discussing the weather with a colleague. "The Dark Lord is fond of… releasing his anger through these methods."

"…It's sick," Harry said, feeling slightly nauseous. "He is twisted."

"His sadism has always been rather evident," Tom remarked. "You have known since the very beginning; why is it troubling you now?"

"Knowing and seeing are not the same things," Harry muttered. "The latter tends to give me mental images I would rather avoid."

Tom smirked flippantly. "Lighten up, Harry. You are too delicate for your own good."

Harry rewarded his teasing comment with a glare.

Up ahead, he could see long, clawed shadows danced across the walls, in the dim light. Cells, separated with iron bars and durable locks, stood alongside one another in rows that stretched into the darkness.

He had been in these dungeons before, although he'd only been semi-conscious. Though it had been an overtly short amount of time, it was enough for him to decide that he would never allow himself to be imprisoned again, ever, if he could help it.

As they walked passed the empty cells, Harry noted the dangling chains attached to the ceiling of each empty prison. He could envision the horrors that went on inside.  
The prisoners would be suspended by their ankles with blood rushing to his or her head… and stabbed repeatedly on the torso….

He shook himself roughly to clear his mind. Perhaps, Tom was correct about him being a masochist; the way he courted his own mental torment was unusual for one who did not enjoy doing so. But then again, he had always been the unusual case.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a high pitched, blood chilling scream echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the walls and startling the wits out of Harry.

He stiffened.

"Feeling jumpy?" Tom said, chuckling quietly. "Seems like we have found our favourite Death Eaters. It sounds as if Bellatrix is enjoying herself a bit too much."

"I daresay she is," Harry said grimly, without a trace of humour in his voice. "Who are the prisoners?"

"I have my own suspicions..." Tom increased his pace and strutted ahead. "But I guess you will find out soon enough."

"I'm not sure I want to," Harry muttered, quickening his steps so that he rushed by Tom, and the elder was forced to hurry after him.

—0O0—

Ron Weasley was having a bloody awful day. In the dimness of his cold cell, he was pressed uncomfortably close to numerous small, shivering bodies.

The unpleasant reek of sweat, filth and fear was incredibly strong, hovering over the dungeons like an overcast cloud. He felt light headed as he breathed in the pong that he had smelt since he was abducted; it stank to high heaven.

He ducked his head down and sniffed his own armpits, gagging as he did so. It suggested he had not bathed for weeks on end. He guessed he could not blame anyone else for the gruesome mistreatment of his nose when he had been contributing to it all along.

He hated this hellhole.

He hated the handsome wizard who was, in fact, Voldemort.

If only the bars could snap… He would race home, to the sound of laughter and sobs. Percy would stay quiet, for once, and Fred and George, no doubt, would be impressed beyond words that he had managed to escape from the most dangerous wizard of all time.

Everything would be perfect…

Oh, how he looked forward to the fame of fleeing from one of the securest prisons known to wizard kind.

Unfortunately, it was precisely that. Secure. Merely breaking out of his cell would be highly difficult, let alone the manor. It was practically impossible.

All he ever wanted was to get free and go home. His mum was bound to ladle a bowl filled to the brim with pumpkin soup, and bake an entire oven of divine scones the moment he returned.

It was bloody unfair; of all the children available, why the hell did Malfoy have to choose him to kidnap? The dirty Death Eater had a long and nasty history with his parents, who supposedly, were Blood-Traitors; it was only to be expected that Malfoy wanted to spite them, but nonetheless…

When fight broke out between Voldemort and Grindelwald, Ron had thought he had been spared from such a fate.

He grunted in frustration. It simply wasn't bloody fair, at all.

As if to highlight his point, his stomach growled hungrily. He stared at it, mouth watering hopelessly. He usually never went without food for any longer than ten hours.

Here, in the Death Eater infested underground fleapit, he could not even remember the last time he had eaten. Perhaps it had been two days ago: when Malfoy brought in the stale crusts of bread accompanied by slops that reminded Ron of pig feed.

Still, everyone had fallen upon it hungrily, trying to shield their piece with every part of their body. Ron had fought hard to earn the biggest chunk. And even then… he had gone unbelievably famished.

He glared at the smaller kids around him. It was outrageously sad that the Death Eaters separated them from their families; it was not something humans would do. Some children were as young as eleven.

The young ones wailed from day to night. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. It was almost like they never ran out of energy; hence, they never shut up. If Ron still had his wand with him, he would cast a spell to make his cellmates be quiet so that he could scavenge at least a few hours of restful sleep.

He could feel his temper growing, swelling, as the days went past. Bloody Dumbledore. His parents idolised the kindly Headmaster, and so did he, but he was sick of waiting for rescue.

Since he had no watch, he was not capable of keeping time – but he knew that several weeks had slipped by without even the slightest hint of a planned rescue mission.

He felt guilty, sometimes, that he was in such a bad mood, but he mainly felt justified. Once, a little boy had accidentally prodded him in the ribs, rather painfully. He had lashed out with biting words, when he had finished venting his anger, the boy was half in tears.

Yeah, he felt bad about making the youngster cry… But he couldn't help it.

On his first day, Ron had held a conversation with the legendary Dark Lord. It had been nerve wracking, to say the least.

Not to mention that the man had insulted him in the most underhanded way. "It is better to let someone assume you are an idiot than to open your mouth and prove it…"  
"Everyone is entitled to act idiotically once in a while…but you abuse the privilege." "I have come across rotting carcasses that are less offensive than you, and offending me is not the cleverest idea."

Those were only some of the less offensive things the Dark Lord had said.

The more offensive things included taunts at his family. "It is a defining characteristic of the Weasley family, is it not – to be weak and mouthy?" Voldemort had asked smoothly. "You make a fine son for your father; you will effortlessly carry the family trait into the next generation."

It had taken all the control in his veins not to leap at the git and claw his eyes out. God… Ron gritted his teeth…he _hated_ him.

Hated him for all those death threats: "…I will not hesitate to tear you apart slowly, limb by limb" – and for degrading him. Ron had gotten several cut wounds on his arm, which had revealed the unappetizing blend of white flesh and red blood. It had healed quickly afterwards but it _did_ sting like mad.

He also hated the visits by Malfoy and that crazy, wild haired female Death Eater whose name was Bellatrix. The pair seemed to savour the frightened screams of their little prisoners; they were constant visitors to the dungeons, if only for the sake of tormenting them.

They rarely used the Cruciatus Curse – in fact, Ron could not remember ever seeing it cast on one of the children – but that did not stop Bellatrix having her fun. She loved intimidating those smaller than herself and following threats up with cutting hexes.

This morning the two slimy Death Eaters were up to their old tricks again. Bellatrix was directly outside their cell, pulling strange faces at them. Ron felt himself tense; things were never good when the woman got too close.

"Aw, the babies look tired," she cooed, to no one in particular. "Naughty, naughty… you all went to bed late."

She pressed her hand through the bars. The children recoiled, flinching away from her black, ragged nails as if they were lunging vipers.

"Do not be afraid. I don't bite," Bellatrix soothed, "…much."

Lucius Malfoy, casually leaning against an empty cell with his wand tucked neatly between his fingers, was twitching his lips, looking onwards as the female lieutenant played with her best source of entertainment.

"Answer when your superior asks you a question… the silence is rude." She mockingly pouted. "Babies like nursery rhymes, do they not? I know a few. It's raining; it's pouring. The old man is snoring. He went to bed and bumped his head, and he couldn't get up in the morning."

Ron shoved his way to the back of the cell, the furthest possible place away from the female follower, and propped himself grumpily against the dirty wall. The darn hag was in an annoying mood this morning.

Bellatrix had started another one of her rhymes. "What are little boys made of? What are little boys made of?"

Malfoy was wearing an infuriatingly curious expression, Ron noted.

"Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails, that's what little boys are made of. What are little girls made of? What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of –"

Ron cursed colourfully, interrupting Lestrange in the middle of her flow. He did not know what had prompted him to shout aloud, but he figured the amount of time spent in the darkness was dismembering his brain. He was probably going mad, thanks to the Dark Lord and his minions.

Bellatrix had stopped abruptly, her hooded eyes narrowing at him, the boy who dared to disrupt her in midsentence.

Twirling his wand casually, Lucius glanced at Bellatrix. "You know…his name is Ronald Weasley... the Blood-Traitors' youngest son. I introduced him to you last time, remember?"

Bellatrix's eyes glistened wickedly. "Clear as crystal," she said. "He is the one whom the Dark Lord deems incompetent, is he not? The weak and mouthy runt."

Ron should have bitten his tongue and kept quiet, and ignored the taunts; it was the clever way to go. He ignored logic. Driven by an irrational wave of fury, he leapt up and swore vividly in the witch's face. "…effing banshee."

Normally, at home, Mrs Weasley would have pulled him by the collar to wash his mouth out with soup. Fortunately, his mum was nowhere to be seen; unfortunately, Bellatrix was grinning widely, from ear to ear.

"Boy, does your father know he has sired an imbecile?" she asked.

He went red, from the tips of his ears down to his toes. "I am not an imbecile," he grunted.

"Obviously not, dearie…" Unnoticed, Bellatrix had slipped out her wand and aimed it at Ron. "Diffindo."

His trouser leg ripped open, and a trickle of blood leaked out. Ron cussed in pain, "Damn you all to hell…"

The petite girl next to him opened her lips far and wide, and let out a howl of terror.

—0O0—

Harry, skin tingling with trepidation at the thought of what he would find, rushed towards the source of the scream as fast as one could walk. Two of Voldemort's most infamous Death Eaters and a dungeon full of prisoners did not mix well together… And how was that any of his business?

It really wasn't his business, he had to admit, but he was receiving a feeling of unease that –

"Slow down," Riddle ordered from behind him, as Harry rounded another corner. His ears were beginning to discern the sound of audible crying. He paid the older Slytherin no heed.

Ah, the noises were becoming louder and louder, and there were two figures in the distance. Harry was ready to bet on a limb that they were Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy.

"I _said_, slow _down_." A cold hand caught hold of his neck and squeezed him, hard. "A first good impression is vital if you wish to make an impact on Malfoy and Lestrange."

Harry twisted out of Riddle's iron grip in annoyance. "It is going to bruise later," he snarled. "You did not have to pinch me. Anyway, does Voldemort even _want_ your handprints all over his Horcrux?"

A smile budded over Tom's pale lips. "I am sorry, truly." The devious smile, sweet and insincere, broadened. "If only you had listened to me…"

He sighed in exasperation. "There is just no arguing with you."

Tom's eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Then don't."

Growling under his breath, Harry stepped towards the silhouettes, accompanied by a closely following Tom.

**...**

"Ah, the Dark Lord's new follower," Bellatrix greeted, with contemptuous venom injected in her voice. "His _favoured_."

A charming smile blossomed like a striking flower across the smooth face of the said 'follower'. "Favoured?" Tom echoed. "My, that comes as a shock. As far as I am aware, the Dark Lord shows me no preferential behaviour. Growing paranoid, aren't you… Bella?"

Her dark brows furrowed together into a menacing scowl. "_Why_ would I be paranoid about an amateurish, inexperienced recruit? I have served the Dark Lord for years."

Tom feigned a thoughtful expression that made Harry choke back laughter. "Perhaps you worry you will lose your position as his top dog? Funny, isn't it, how some doubt that years of loyal servitude cannot suppress a few days of rare talent?"

Bellatrix looked like she was holding herself back from clawing his tongue out. "Surely you are not referring to yourself?" she spat.

"Who else can I be referring to?" Tom delicately answered.

"The insolence is astonishing –"

"Are you a new recruit, young man?" Lucius said, cutting across Bellatrix brusquely. "I have never seen you around the master's manor."

"That is because the dimwit only came a few nights ago – and already, he is challenging _us!" _  
Near the end of her sentence, a feral snarl burst across her lips.

"Oh, Bella," Tom tutted, "labelling people with unsuitable names before you even know them… A little rude, one would think."

"He sounds as if he has been here for years," Lucius remarked observantly.

"He does, the little brat," Bellatrix agreed darkly.

"You are inside the Dark Lord's house, and therefore you must respect its traditions. The inferiors obey their superiors – welcome to the hierarchy. I am the former Minister of Magic and Bellatrix is rumoured to be the Dark Lord's most faithful luitenent; I have to warn you, boy, both Bellatrix and I are on a high rank."

Tom inspected the finely dressed man, who stood before him with an expression of interest, coldly. "Who is to say I am not higher?" he tested.

Harry, from his position hidden out of sight in the gloom, stifled a grin. He knew that Tom Marvolo Riddle, with his inflated sense of superiority, would attempt to batter the Dark Lord's followers in line.

It was understandable. After all, he was a Dark Lord too – and it was to be expected that he would want to build his own kingdom of awe amongst Voldemort's elite followers. Not to mention, the Death Eaters were just plain irritating.

Lucius Malfoy seemed taken aback by the fierce comeback. For a while, he faltered for words.

Harry suspected _any_ version of the Dark Lord, not necessarily Voldemort, could render even the _most_ composed of wizards speechless.

"I should teach you a memorable lesson beneath my wand," Bellatrix snapped, ominously. "I can make you grovel on the floor, begging for mercy. I swear, I will not stop until you submit –"

"You will do not such thing," Lucius interrupted smoothly, diffusing the tension of the moment. "He is merely ignorant for the time being. He will learn on his own accord… Won't you?"

Tom simply smirked in reply while Bellatrix fixed a deadly glare upon him.

"In the meantime," Lucius continued, to Riddle, "you will have to excuse us while we… have our fun with the prisoners. Before you arrived, Bellatrix was teaching the children nursery rhymes."

For a split second, Harry forgot to breathe.  
_Prisoners? Children?_

"Tom, Tom, the pauper's son, stole a pig and away did run," Bellatrix recited, her voice singsong as she took in the young Dark Lord's furious expression.

It took Harry a while to realise that it was a nursery rhyme, one that offended Tom deeply, if his darkening gaze was anything to go by.

"Tom, Tom, the pauper's son, stole a pig and away did run. The pig was eat and Tom was beat. And Tom went crying down the street!"

Lucius appeared as though he was battling a smile from wounding its way into existence. Harry thought Malfoy seemed like he was caught between amusement and dismay by Bellatrix's innocent jab at Riddle.

Tom opened his mouth to say something, but before he was able to get any words in, Bellatrix had sprouted a new poem.

"Little Tom Tucker sings for his supper. What shall we give him? White bread and butter. How shall he cut it without a knife? How will he be married without a wife?" She ended on a high note.

"It sounds wonderful," Tom said, arching a neat eyebrow, "although it must be a coincidence that all the nursery rhymes happen to have an association with me."

Harry smirked from his hiding spot.

"Anyway," Tom said coolly, "on orders of the Dark Lord, I am supposed to introduce a precious new guest to you."

"Oh?" Lucius looked fascinated.

"Come out… Harry."

Instantly, as Harry Potter stepped from his place, Malfoy's air of fascination evolved into twisted hatred. It was so intense, so strong; he could feel it rushing off the male wizard in torrents. It was so consuming.

"You filthy _traitor!_"

On instinct, he snapped his wand out. It was fortunate that he did.

Twin streaks of the Cruciatus Curse flashed towards him, one from each of the Death Eaters' outstretched wands. The pain spells flew with unbelievable, lightning speed; Harry had no time to bolt out of the way.

His hand, on pure impulse, swiped upwards, and from the tip of his own wand flared a bright shield.

In the twinkling of an eye, the spells simultaneously connected with the defence – and rebounded, as a returned favour, back to Lucius and Bellatrix.

When the two Death Eaters were forced to vanquish their own curses, it appeared they would relentlessly attempt to dissect him.

Severe cutting hexes, ripping hexes, pain curses, blasting curses and the darkest of magic were sent spinning in his direction.

Harry warded all of them off with very little effort; the years of training under Tom Riddle's legendary ruthlessness had given him a head start.

A flick of the wand here, and the curse was engulfed by a shield; a sidestep there and he had avoided the potential danger of being sliced into ribbons.

Five years ago, he would have promptly buckled under the flood of gashes and wounds gifted by Bellatrix. However, he was now sixteen and wholly capable, familiar with manipulating spells to his will and casting dark curses with a vengeance, never hesitating.

Being trained by the Dark Lord had its bonuses, he guessed. Power flowed through his body like electricity, trickling from his inner core down to his fingertips. His heart pulsed, from the adrenaline.

Wand whirling, he drove them back determinedly. He would prevail.

And then, just as everything was going well, his wand zipped from his hand into those of Tom Bloody Riddle. The beast flaunted a cunning smile, and _waved_ teasingly at him, a second before the breath was knocked out of him and he was blasted backwards like a leaf thrown in a fierce wind.

He landed sideways against the bars of a cell, grazing his arm in the process. Lucius advanced sinisterly, all traces of his previous diplomatic behaviour with Tom gone. It was almost as if the man had become mad.

Harry hurled himself to his feet, using one of the bars as support. Glancing at the attentive face of Tom Riddle, who stood in the corner as though watching a show, he realised he would get no assistance. _The git._

"Accio wand," he said clearly, eyes fastened to his weapon in Riddle's hand.

The wand shivered, like it was trying to free itself, before succumbing to Tom's cast-iron grip. Harry glared at the young Dark Lord threateningly. _I'm going to kill you, you cur._

Tom appeared unperturbed. Sighing, Harry turned back to face Lucius.

"You little turncoat," the man was saying dangerously, "the Dark Lord should have killed you on sight. He gave you _everything_, and you betrayed him." He continued to advance.

"I know wandless magic," Harry warned lowly.

Lucius snubbed his comment. "My _son _was supposed to experience the wonders of the Dark Lord's era, and inherit my position. _You_ ruined his dreams, you wretched child."

His words were followed with a tussle for control between Harry and the pair of Death Eaters.

Fighting wandless, although achievable for Harry, was a hindrance. The struggle went on, like an endless tug of war, with him accepting and exchanging blows.

He weaved in and out of the line of fire, actively putting his body to good usage as well as magic.

Still, it was one against two. He was beginning to tire; they had been duelling for such a long length of time. Riddle truly was a sadist for taking away his wand.

Just as it started to look like the all-out war would never end, Tom stepped forward. "Immobulus," he hissed softly.

Harry felt his body swerve to a halt. Immobilised. Looking around, he discovered that Bellatrix and Malfoy were in the same position.

"Hmm, that was unexpected," Riddle said.

Harry did not know whether it was just him or whether there was a certain glee in the other's voice.

"You know, the Dark Lord gave strict instructions for no harm or damage to be inflicted upon his guest," Tom paused, to make sure the message hit home. "Unless you wish to incur his wrath, I suggest you lower your wands." He targeted this at Bellatrix and Lucius, and then, he spoke the counter-charm.

Harry was panting when he gained control over his body again. He glowered at Tom, who quickly tossed him back his wand.

"I am afraid, Bella," Tom said, "that during the last five years, Harry has managed to outmatch you in terms of magic. He is untouchable; he has the Dark Lord's protection and his own magical proficiency. Whatever qualms you have concerning his presence, unfortunately, has to be stowed away."

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	18. Attraction

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_"I am afraid, Bella," Tom said, "that during the last five years, Harry has managed to outmatch you in terms of magic. He is untouchable; he has the Dark Lord's protection and his own magical proficiency. Whatever qualms you have concerning his presence, unfortunately, has to be stowed away."_

Bellatrix's sour expression could have curdled fresh milk, her generous lips had thinned into one narrow line and rage flared like a fire in her dark, bottomless eyes. The nails on her right hand were digging painfully into her palm, and she looked as if she was reluctant to lower her wand.

Surprisingly, Lucius was the exact opposite.

His arms hung limply by his side, almost resignedly, the moment the spell had been lifted. The passionate look of extreme hatred had faded rapidly into his face, replaced by a blank mask of emotionlessness. If anything, he looked drained.

In the gloom of the dungeons, Malfoy's high cheekbones seemed to lose their former glamour, and became sunken, gaunt with fatigue.

"Potter is a dirty turncoat," Bellatrix snapped. "Surely the Dark Lord would not wish to extend his hospitality towards him. He is useless in every imaginable way –!"

"Then you must have a very limited imagination," Tom murmured, his voice flowing like velvet. "The last time I checked, the Dark Lord prizes power beyond all else… And in one sense, Harry is more powerful than you."

The witch's eyes bulged, flickering with vehemence. "You dare make such a statement," she said. "You dare –"

"Yes, I dare," Tom said matter-of-factly, dismissing her outrage with a nonchalant wave. "You duelled him two against one; two accomplished, adult Death Eaters against one teenage boy. I spelled away his wand before he could finish you off – and even then, he could have bested you without a wand if I had allowed him more time."

Bellatrix was shocked into silence.

"Now, think," Tom said, "would the Dark Lord not desire Harry Potter to fight alongside him, the young boy who outmatches his elite followers?"

"But – but," Bellatrix spluttered, tripping over her tongue, "but he is a traitor!"

"Yes, yes, that," Tom said impatiently. "A traitor he may be but we have no eternal allies, and we have no perpetual enemies. Only our interests are forever, and a true Slytherin would consider it his duty to follow those interests."

"Are you saying it is in the Dark Lord's best interests that he welcomes the boy back?" Bellatrix demanded.

"Yes."

"The Dark Lord does not need him, the little runt –"

This time round, instead of Tom replying, it was Harry. "I am standing right here, you know," he said meaningfully, flashing a wide smile. "I am not deaf; therefore, I can hear every single insult that you blabber."

"Why should I care –?"

"Oh, you should," Harry said grimly, fingering his wand. "Or you may just find yourself in an undesirable position. You know what the wise men say: never affront your superiors."

Bellatrix brandished her wand sharply, without thinking twice. "Is that a threat?"

"Definition of threat: a statement of an intention to inflict pain, injury, damage, or other hostile action on someone in retribution for something done or not..." Harry said. "So, yes, I daresay it _is_ a threat."

"You –"

"I have no wish to rush into yet another duel," Harry silkily said, interrupting the woman in midsentence for the third time in a row. "However, if you have such a wish, I can only oblige. It is rude to refuse a lady, after all."

"Spare your energy, Harry," Tom purred soothingly. "She is not worth it."

Harry twisted around. "Why are you looking so pleased?" he questioned crossly. "We are not in the middle of a tea party."

"What is there not to be pleased about?" Tom said. "You have met Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy, and they now understand you are not to be touched. Our job here is finished. Let's go."

He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Harry said, abruptly.

Tom looked quizzically at him. "I thought you could not wait to leave."

"I want to see the prisoners," he told Malfoy.

"I am afraid, Mister Potter, that it would be wholly inappropriate," Lucius answered coldly. "The Dark Lord assigned only two people to take care of these cells."

"It does not matter; let him see," Tom drawled, with a bored expression. "The sooner his ridiculous curiosity is quenched, the sooner we can leave without listening to his whining."

"Is this also the Dark Lord's order?" Lucius questioned.

Tom paused for the fleetest of moments, before responding with utmost sincerity, "Yes, the Dark Lord wishes for his guest to be treated magnificently."

Lucius Malfoy stiffened. "Then we best follow the Dark Lord's commands," he said.

Reluctantly, the two Death Eaters stood aside to allow Harry room. He moved forward instantly, making a beeline for the cell with muffled cries, turning a blind eye to the stare of hatred that Malfoy sent in his direction.

As his hands gripped the bars tightly and he looked inside, sweeping the cell thoroughly with his observant eyes, a grotesquely inhumane picture greeted him.

In shock, Harry involuntarily took a step back.

The cell was implausibly congested, overfilled with clustering children who stank of filth, sweat and fear. Simultaneously, over ten pairs of frightened eyes blistered into Harry.

These all were children, he was certain, not one of them had come of age. However, in every corner was a child of different size and face. Some of them were as old as him, while some were as young as six.

The one thing they had in common, they shared, was the mutual loss of liberty and dignity.

Harry experienced a pang of sympathy for them. Honestly, they were too small to be going through such tremors.

At the front of the cell was a freckled boy in a half crouching position; he had a head of brilliant red hair that drew Harry's gaze like moth to fire. He was hunched over his legs, from which blood ran freely.

"What is the problem with him?" Harry asked, forcibly inserting the tone of lightness into his voice. The pretend nonchalance came easily; he had learnt over the years to never allow anyone know what he really cared about.

"He is one of the Weasleys," Bellatrix said, as if the name explained everything.

Harry gazed levelly at the witch. "He is bleeding." It was simple statement, distant, empty of any strong emotion.

"So he is," Tom said, with an infuriatingly knowing smirk planted across his lips, "but why would you care?"

This was one of the few times when Harry dearly craved to wrap his hands around the other's neck and shake him until he choked. Riddle had lived with him; of course the young Dark Lord would effortlessly see past Harry's smooth surfaces to his hidden motives.  
The only thing Harry could comfort himself with was the fact that the vice versa was also true; if anyone understood Tom, it would be him. Although… he wonder whether it was a blessing or curse for him.

Deliberately overlooking Tom's question, Harry turned to Bellatrix. "Who are the Weasleys?"

The hag sneered. "Oh, look at you, Potter, as ignorant as always."

"Ignorance is bliss," Harry quipped. "It is the only way I can be joyful while surrounding myself with tediously uncouth people such as you." He watched, in glee, as the vein in Bellatrix's neck throbbed.

"You –"

He did not listen to the rest of her sentence; instead, he faced the redhead. "Hello," he said softly, "how are you? No, scratch that, I know you are not well. Er, who are you? What is your name?"

The freckly boy gaped at him with wide, unblinking blue eyes that reminded Harry uncannily of a goldfish, but did not answer.

"How many of you are there?" Harry tried again to make conversation.

Ringing silence.

"Mister Weasley, if I may call you that, how long have you been here?" Harry asked, patiently. "Were you kidnapped by these…Death Eaters?"

No reply.

"Why are you bleeding?"

Again, predictably, there was no reply. Harry sighed mentally.

"Did you knock your leg on the bars or something?" Even as he said this, he winced. His attempt at getting the boy to talk was uncharacteristically stupid. How many people could injury themselves to the extent of gushing blood with nothing sharp? Not to mention, the query just sounded completely fake.

The second he saw the wound, Harry had known it was Bellatrix's masterpiece, and there really was no point pretending otherwise.

Frustratingly his enquiry, for the fifth time, was given no response. It was awkward. Harry had a gut feeling that Tom was inwardly laughing at his futile endeavours of shooting the breeze… He wondered if the red-haired boy wasn't deaf.

"Look, if you don't want to be called Mister Weasley, just open that mouth of yours and tell me," Harry said.

No reaction.

This time, Harry abandoned his efforts and heaved a sigh.

"Do not waste your breath, Harry," Tom commented silkily, "on insignificant scum. He is probably mute." He gave Harry a push between the shoulder blades. "We should leave."

"Who the hell do you think _you_ are? A very big potato?" Ronald yelled through the bars at Riddle.

Harry twisted around. "I have to thank you, Tom," he said, sarcastically. "You have just proven that he is neither deaf nor mute. I think I'll have better luck with him if you can leave with Lestrange and Malfoy while Weasley and I talk."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Why are you so determined on talking to _him?"_

"Because I would like to find out whether Voldemort is out of his mind or whether there is a purpose in taking _children_ as prisoners –"

"It is upon the Dark Lord's own orders that we guard the prisoners, Potter," Lucius started to say. "I am afraid even you, the Dark Lord's _treasured guest_, cannot be given the liberty of being left alone with the prisoners."

Bellatrix glared at him with her dark eyes. "You are up to something, I know," she said. "Planning a second rescue? Perhaps, as if once is not enough for you?"

"I assure you that I am not."

"All the same," Tom said, "why do you need to be _alone?"_

"For the simple reason that Weasley will not talk when his captors are here!" Harry exclaimed. "I fail to see what is so difficult to comprehend about that."

"Then," Tom said firmly, "I will stay to ensure you will not… take extreme measures."

"Fine!" Harry snapped, tiredly. "Deal."

"None of you can be trusted!" Bellatrix hissed, menacingly.

"She is correct," Lucius added, icily. "We will not disrespect a direct order from the Dark Lord."

"It will only require a moment."

"A moment is too long."

"This is outrageously ridiculous!" Harry said. "What in Merlin's Beard can possibly happen?"

"A moment is too long," Malfoy repeated. "The Dark Lord does not permit it."

"You think I can assist them in an escapade through tightly warded bars, avoid triggering the alarms, and then lead them through different levels of the manor while evading curiosity, and finally waltz out the front door under Voldemort's very eye?" Harry incredulously.

"No one knows what tricks you have under your sleeve," Bellatrix spat.

Harry glowered at them squarely for a moment. "Very well. Maybe I will come back another day _with_ Voldemort's permission."

He turned on his heels and swept angrily out of the dungeons, with Tom Riddle beside him.

When he had left the chilly, musty air behind, Harry gave a growl. "Have I mentioned how much I detest them?" he said. "Corrupt Death Eaters."

"I am sure they find you insufferable too," Tom said wryly.

"It's as though they make it their job to impede you at every turn…"

"And did you expect any better?" Scorning words accompanied by an arched eyebrow. "You know… it was evident Bellatrix would deliberately make things complicated for you where she can."

"Malfoy is equally taxing." Harry lifted a hand through his raven strands, feeling the energy draining from him. "It is hard to believe how much effort one has to pay to deal with those two beasts."

"It is understandable how Lucius Malfoy reacted to you," Tom said. "After all, he finds it to be your fault that he has not seen his son at all in the last five years. In fact, it is unknown whether Draco is even alive."

Harry stopped dead in his tracks with shock. "Draco Malfoy!" he said. "I've forgotten altogether. No wonder Lucius Malfoy was so…vehement at the sight of me. Draco's at Hogwarts though, isn't he?"

"Dumbledore governs Hogwarts," Tom said. "Ever since Dumbledore closed the school off, no trace of the Death Eater children had been seen. They were as good as captured."

Harry blinked, wide eyed. "Oh, God." He let out a long whistle. "That is…very unfortunate."

Tom smirked, confident the message had struck home. "If I recall correctly, a few months ago when I told you Dumbledore's progress was made from ordering Grindelwald to kill off individual Death Eaters, bargaining with the media for a sick portrayal of Voldemort and holding children of Death Eaters – like Draco – hostage, you retorted that he was keeping baby Death Eaters at Hogwarts to save them from Voldemort's exploitation."

Silently, Harry's mind ticked like the cogs on the back of a clock. He realised the sadistic cold-bloodedness of separating children from their parents. "What about the children in the dungeons?" he said. "Malfoy is as bad as Dumbledore."

"Lord Voldemort abducted those children for the sake of striking fear into the hearts of Dumbledore's supporters," Tom said. "If you had constantly read the newspaper instead of occasionally skipping the routine, you would have known that Weasley and all the rest are the Order's children."

"What does he plan on doing with them?"

"He is not going to kill them, if that is what you mean," Tom said. "I doubt he has devised a scheme yet; most likely, he merely wishes for the Order to turn against Dumbledore in a fit of parental worry."

Harry nodded, an odd glint flashing in his green orbs. If Voldemort was overtly occupied to fashion a good use for the children, then it was up to him to propose an arrangement that would both impress the Dark Lord, and give everyone what they deserved.

—0O0—

Harry was idling on one of the elegant, dark green divans, fingering the smooth wood of his polished wand. He brooded over whether it had been an ideal decision on his part or whether it had been one of those spur-of-the-moment things.

A fire, lambent, iridescent and dancing to the shadows on the wall, was set in the fireplace to bring warmth into the large space.

Tom Riddle was reclined on a chaise longue at the other end of the room, calmly reading a thick Dark Arts tome, unaffected by the constant tender stares that Daphne Greengrass sent in his direction. She was unashamedly batting her eyelashes and examining her nails, angling them so that if Tom ever bothered to look up, the first thing he would see would be the perfectly painted fingernails.

For a split second, Harry wondered if she was attempting to seduce Riddle – but the concept was so preposterous that he dropped the idea with a disgusted shiver. The notion that Daphne would ever fall in love with anyone, let alone with Tom, was farfetched. She seemed too cold for anything like it.

Besides, even if she did, it would practically be suicidal. Harry knew that it would only ever be one sided because Tom, the emotionless psychopath, would use her to his benefit, manipulating her and following it up with an excruciating rejection. Or perhaps, he would lead her on forever, like a marionette.

He could not decide which one was crueller.

Yet, even as he tried to forget the unnerving thought, Daphne pushed herself from her seat and treaded gracefully towards Tom, flaunting her posture.

"Good evening, Tom," she said softly, wetting her lips.

Tom glanced up from his book. "Hello," he returned calmly. "May I help you…?"

"Oh," she gave a sweet laugh. "It's fine. The Dark Lord told me to come here tonight, and said you and… Harry would be present. I'm sure he will be arriving shortly. It's just that… he did not call a meeting. I was unsure if you did."

"I did not," Tom said. "Harry did."

Harry instantly looked away, back to his wand, pretending he had not been listening in on their conversation, just as Daphne threw a momentary look at him. He could swear there was an amused twinkle in Riddle's eye that was meant for him. Strangely, Greengrass did not seem to care that there was a witness; she fixed her gaze on Tom.

"Harry?" She breathed out the word softly. "Why would he call a meeting?"

Oh, yes, that was unusual too. Harry asked himself the same question. He would never have thought that he would ever actually voluntarily give up his leisure to endure the presence of the Dark Lord. But alas, it was necessary tonight.

Tom gave Daphne a charming, amiable wink. "You will have to see for yourself," he purred. "I would not want to ruin the surprise for you."

Daphne's breath seemed to hitch. Her eyes never left his, mesmerized and captivated, as if the entire world orbited around the young Dark Lord. As if he was magnetic.

Harry turned away. He felt slightly nauseous at the obvious display of affection. He knew that Tom was only toying with Daphne, but there was the annoying, lingering, unwarranted suspicion that Riddle was genuinely attracted to the ice queen… It was not very probable, but…

"Hmm, Tom, you are so polite." Daphne let out a light giggle. It was the closest to a nervous titter that Harry had heard from her mouth.

"Am I?" Tom arched his eyebrow in the expression that Harry was so used to. "I must admit, you are not so bad yourself. Your Pureblood etiquettes are admirable. You come from a long line of respected witches and wizards, all aristocratic, am I correct?"

"Yes," Daphne answered eagerly. "Are you?"

"Naturally," Tom drawled.

Riddle was a Half Blood… the lying snake. Nonetheless, Harry felt himself relax, knowing that Tom was manipulating Greengrass.

"Are you –?" Daphne stopped in midsentence as the Dark Lord chose that moment to stride through the door. His powerful presence swelled like a suffocating gas into the room; it took a while for Harry to get used to.

Reluctantly, Daphne made to return to her own seat. Before she left, Tom hissed into her ear, "You are a fascinating creature." She blushed a deep red.

Meanwhile, the Dark Lord was looking attentively at Harry. "So," he said, "why are we here?"

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	19. Testing the Waters

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_Meanwhile, the Dark Lord was looking attentively at Harry. "So," he said, "why are we here?"_

"I merely assumed it would be pleasant to hold a social gathering once in a while," Harry replied alluringly. "After all the niceties must not be forgotten, especially those fine points that fasten us to one another." He gave Voldemort a saccharine smile that practically screamed 'fake'.

"Well said, Harry, I really must applaud you for such a remark," Voldemort said. "Though, my curiosity begs the question as to why Lucius and Bellatrix are not present. They are, at minimum, esteemed members of my elite Inner Circle."

Harry disguised the moment of wordlessness thinking as he debated by what means to answer the Dark Lord with an innocent expression.

"My Lord…" he said slowly, the mechanisms in his mind spinning wildly. "I apprehend your implications fully, but this meeting is one of neither business nor battle plans but a chance for _us – _master, apprentice, guest and favoured – to unwind in relative privacy."

The Dark Lord bestowed upon him a contented nod as if he found his response adequate. "An excellent proposal."

"Thank you for your compliment," Harry returned, his tongue reacting swiftly from years of repetition.

However, even his feigned gratitude was difficult to maintain when the dark wizard deliberately ignored the empty, unoccupied couch and elegantly seated himself in Harry's divan.  
In his opinion, it was far too close for his comfort to be spared; his polite smile faltered for a fleeting second.

He swallowed his disquiet and forced himself to concentrate. Much focus would be required from him later; he must control his emotions in order for his greater purpose for the meeting to be fulfilled. He seethed over how he had given up his leisure to endure the presence of his past master, but it was unavoidable.

"My Lord," he said, compellingly inserting pretend cheer into his voice, "are there any delicacies you have in mind? It can easily be fetched by the elves. Strawberry tarts, perhaps?"

Lord Voldemort chuckled knowingly at the last part in the sentence. "Your memory must not be underestimated; it truly is remarkable. I _do_ have a certain fondness for strawberry tarts."

"You flatter him, my Lord," Tom cut in. "It simply seems as though we share a few interests; it is hardly surprising Harry picked them up while living with me."

"I guess not." Voldemort gazed levelly at his younger self. "If you can pardon my request, I'd be grateful in you can remain _after_ the meeting."

Harry noted the meaningful emphasis and could not help but wonder the reasons behind one such invitation. Judging by Daphne's snooping glances at Tom, he knew she was also fascinated.

"Naturally, my Lord," Tom said. "But I see no reason why Harry should not stay too. I can guarantee he will keep his hands to himself… and needless to say… our discussion may be one he can learn from."

Despite glaring daggers at Riddle his suggestion, Harry saw, from the corner of his eye, the hurt expression that lingered for the fraction of a second on Daphne's face. He realised his staying meant that the only excluded person would be her – and for Tom to be the one who recommended it… It must have hurt.

Well, he had always known those poor females who fell hard for Tom Marvolo Riddle fell from a cliff top. And no arms would catch them at the bottom. It was more than feeling love's keen sting – it was getting mauled until Riddle had taken everything he desired from them.

Tom Riddle, with all his handsomeness, charm, intelligence and coldness, would never go to the trouble of sparing them pain purely for the sake of the love that he deemed so pathetic. For Tom, Harry knew, it was all on the subject of the benefits he could reap.

Voldemort appeared to hesitate briefly, before giving a curt gesture of consent. "Perhaps just for tonight," he said, with a small smile gracing his features. "If the conversation becomes unfitting for his ears, we can always wipe his memory clean."

Harry's eyes flashed angrily at the Dark Lord. "I'd rather not," he said bluntly. "Leaving without anyone twisting my mind sounds better in comparison. I have had a horrible history with memory charms." As he said this, he stared unswervingly at the only woman in the room.

Said woman widened her amber eyes at the audacious comment that insulted the Dark Lord in more than a mild manner. Daphne licked her lips in anticipation, unmistakably waiting for her master to punish Harry for his insolence.

Contrary to her expectations, the Dark Lord did not even bat an eyelid. "I promise," he said calmly, "that I will only use it as a last resort."

"I would like to accept your generosity, I really do –" Harry said.

Daphne Greengrass looked almost murderous. He knew she would have jumped at the first hint of an opportunity to join Voldemort and Tom.

"– but it is not good enough for me."

This time round, Voldemort's wand hand twitched in impatience at the continuing lack of respect.

"Do not take it personally, my Lord," he said. "Not many people can match my expectations."

Harry sensed the wrath that rose like an uncoiling serpent; it surrounded the Dark Lord and swelled into the room.

_Danger, danger, danger. _

"It is not that I am intentionally rebuffing your bigheartedness…" he said, "…but you have to admit, it is barely the depth of a teaspoon."

His mind warned him that he was tracking near forbidden boundaries, now, but his instincts wished to give one extra probe, to check the tolerance of the dark wizard. He was unsure about his next actions and whether he should risk being cursed for something so trivial.

There was a twisted smile on Lord Voldemort's lips that had more similarity to a sneer, and his eyes were gleaming alarmingly. "May I take this as a compliment?"

"Please do," Harry said easily, "though countless others might see it as what is opposite of a praise. Nevertheless, an inflated ego is a useful thing to own and can take you a long way, especially if you are a thick skinned Dark Lord."

Daphne had stood up fiercely, indignantly. "Hold your beastly tongue, Potter!" she spat. "Your rudeness knows no bounds! Apologise at once!"

Harry gracefully responded with his clever words, "The Dark Lord has yet to express his dissatisfaction, so what are _you_ aggravated about? I am certain he has the capability to defend himself."

Even Tom Riddle was attempting to warn him with an urgently intense frown accompanied by a firm shake of the head. But Harry needed no notification; he had known the Dark Lord was losing restraints on his untamed temper. His aim was to push him a tiny more.

He had to test Voldemort's limits, or he would never know, and _that_ could be more dangerous.

_Oh well, one little Cruciatus wasn't going to kill him… it would still be agonising… but sacrifices must be made for the profit of the longer run._

"My Lord?" Harry said lazily, mentally bracing himself for the impact of Voldemort's fury. "What say you? Will you do things my way in trade for my presence?"

In one graceful stride, he had overstepped, overrun, the boundaries completely. Not only had he openly defied the Dark Lord but he had also implied that the man should obediently yield to _him._

Harry knew his exceptionally chosen words would make Voldemort see red and send him on the warpath.

There was a sharp inhale of breath – likely from Tom – and a humourless smile full of teeth that flickered fleetingly across the Dark Lord's pale lips.

Harry pried down a flinch as Lord Voldemort, in such close proximity, raised his arm. He imposed a tranquil posture on his body, hiding away any nervousness he felt. If he was any lesser a person, he might have curled into a weeping ball of shivering fear, but he was not.

He was Harry Potter.

"Are you going to curse me, my Lord?" Harry inquired sweetly.

"This is just like the old times," Voldemort said coldly. "Do you think I should?"

And Harry was reminded uncannily of the 'old times' that the dark wizard spoke of. Years ago, he had sparred Voldemort with words, holding the most amusing of banters with the cruel man, which often ended with him facing wand point.

_"I'm not one of your servant Death Eaters," he snapped, against his better judgement._

_Instantaneously, Harry found himself on the opposite end of Voldemort's yew wand, and facing his unpromising fate in the eye. _

_"I overlooked your irksome insolence at Hogwarts. Finding myself on the threshold of redeeming my earlier kindness, I suggest you consider whether jousting with me is worth confronting my wrath, which will eventually result in your begging for mercy," Voldemort forewarned, his pale lips tightening._

_Harry's mind took time to assess the situation, weighing up his options. Finally, he backed down, eyes lowered. _

_"Good boy," Voldemort mocked, letting his wand fall to his side._

Harry almost scoffed at the question. "You do not need _my_ permission, my Lord," he said slickly. "Though, since you asked… I would say you should."  
_There, it was practically an invitation._

"If you give your word that this will not to be a common occurrence, I can pardon you, you know," Voldemort said softly, surprising Harry greatly. "My displeasure can be put aside, and I will accept your apology should you give it immediately."

_Now_ Harry was impressed. Perhaps the Dark Lord deserved more credit than he gave him; it looked as if he had stretched his own margins.

"Harry_,_ _stand down_ –" Tom started.

But he _still_ needed to know how far the boundaries could be strained. "Forgive me, my Lord," he quipped, ignoring the Slytherin Heir. "Right now I cannot bring myself to voice lies and promises I do not mean; I neither feel like begging for forgiveness nor making fickle vows."

He had finally subdued Daphne Greengrass; she was silent, awed by his daring and the conflict that threatened to break out into a tornado.

"You are asking for it," Voldemort said frostily. "Very well… I have given you your chance."

He lifted his serpentine hand, and his fingertips glowed with powerful magic. It was magic that would soon be unleashed and come whipping down on Harry. He hoped it was not the Cruciatus Curse.

Still, he was proud of himself for his discovery of the Dark Lord's true limitations.

Harry readied himself.

If he had not been watching the movements of the Dark Lord so intensely, he might have noticed another spell, a light blue colour, streaking hastily towards him.

"Sectumsempra." The spell was uttered pitilessly, the sheer force that burst from Voldemort's fingers threatened to knock Harry backwards.

He made no effort to defend himself.

A second before the curse flew into his chest, Harry found a shield sparkling around himself, safely wrapping him inside while successfully deflecting the blow.

He sprang up in shock, and the shield determinedly moved with him, protecting him from all directions, in case Voldemort hurled another spell.

However, even as Voldemort had lowered his hand in a signal that he was finished, a curse slashed at Harry, producing a metallic sound as it crashed against the blue armour.

"Daphne, drop your wand," Voldemort ordered.

The simple command ensured nothing would happen after that, though Greengrass turned an ugly shade of pink.

And the shield gradually faded, bit by bit, into nonexistence.

"Without doubt you, of all people, must understand, my Lord," Tom said in a cavalier fashion. "As anyone would, I feel a particular… protectiveness towards the child I raised."

"I do."

Realisation that Tom had sheltered him from endangerment sank in, and Harry felt a twinge of gratitude towards the young Dark Lord. He was the reason that Harry had not been ripped into ribbons.

"Anger propels us to do greater impairment," Tom said. "I did not wish to see him crippled due to your rage. Often we regret our actions a minute too late. You did not _genuinely_ long to cause him pain, did you, my Lord?"

Voldemort closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself, and answered, "Of course not." All signs of lasting ire had vanished from his baritone voice. "He was, after all, once my apprentice. And I think it is time I gave the title back to him."

Harry stiffened. _Oh, no. He didn't want to return to his status as the damned apprentice. _  
"I do not think I deserve it, my Lord," he said.

"Oh, make no mistake. You do not," Voldemort said. "Up until now, I have only seen one person who is faithful enough for the position."

Daphne flushed in pleasure, at the rare tribute.

"But since you are here, and here to stay, there is no point allowing your education fall behind."

"My education is not behind," Harry said quietly. "Tom is a noteworthy teacher."

"Then it must be a shame that I will take over his job," Voldemort said. "I do hope you shall not be _too_ disappointed."

"Not at all," Harry replied, voice taut with provocation. "It is an honour to study under your tutelage, my Lord. Only a fool would question your proficiency at duelling. Magic is but a slave to you."

_'And the entire universe gravitates towards you,' _he was tempted to add. His tone was dripping with sarcastic, oily grease. Truth be told, he had _never_ felt _less_ privileged – sure, the Dark Lord was powerful – but there were too many downsides.

"Kind words, Harry," he said wryly. "Implausibly flattering."

"You have earned them, my Lord."  
Harry tipped his head in mock reverence.

Lord Voldemort heaved a sigh.

"I have introduced Harry to Bellatrix and Lucius this morning, my Lord," Tom speedily cut in, before any more discord could spark. "I am confident they have been daunted by Harry… but only time can tell."

"They were in the dungeons," Harry said.

Three pairs questioning of eyes veered sharply to stare at him. No doubt he had trailed from the relevance of the topic – but he wished to steer the night in the direction of a new subject.

"Bellatrix was telling the children nutty nursery rhymes," Harry continued lightly. "She has a marvellous talent of those. I think one of them has actually glued itself to my mind."

"Oh?"

"Tom, Tom, the pauper's son, stole a pig and away did run," Harry recited cheerfully. "The pig was eat and Tom was beat. And Tom went crying down the street."

The Dark Lord laughed, expressing his amusement at the creativity. "Poor Tom, does he mind? Personally, I think the last line ought to be 'And Tom went _howling_ down the street.'"

Tom gave a faux scowl.

Harry cracked a suave grin. "To be fair," he said, "I have never heard Riddle _howl_ in my life, although the children in the dungeons certainly _were_ wailing at the top of their voices."

"Hardly surprising," Voldemort said.

"If I may boldly ask, my Lord, what purpose do they serve by wasting their lives away in the cells?" Harry said sweetly.

Voldemort widened his eyes in mild amazement at the suddenness of the intruding question. "You may not ask," he said conclusively.

"Aside from the slim possibility of the Order turning against Dumbledore in a fit of parental worry, are there any other profits to be harvested?" Harry resumed unwaveringly, his tone changing brusquely from carefree to steely.

"Know your place, Harry," Voldemort cautioned. "_Your_ inquiry challenges _my_ decision and schemes."

"With the exception of sitting and waiting, you have _no_ plans concerning the children." Harry angled his chin upwards and leaned forth, voluntarily closing the minor distance between him and Voldemort.

As menacing as the Dark Lord appeared, Harry knew the man had careful control on his temper after what had happened before. He was assured he could push harder on the Dark Lord's forbearance without running into trouble.

"At the start of this evening, you proclaimed that no politics and business will be involved," Voldemort reminded.

Harry gave a humourless smile, his green eyes never trailing from Voldemort's sapphire ones. "I lied."

A sideways glance informed Harry of the glint in Tom's eyes as the older Slytherin caught up with his intentions. "My Lord, you may as well listen to his notions," Riddle suggested. "For all we know, they may be priceless."

"Tonight has become extremely taxing," Voldemort said aloofly. "Daphne, get out."

His female apprentice took off hurriedly, almost eager to get away from the chaos. When the door closed behind her, the Dark Lord waved his hand and cast a muffling charm over the room.

"I am an occupied man," Voldemort said. "Make your story short."

"Alright," Harry said agreeably. "It is well known that you are busy, and this is why I have a proposal to put forward."

Voldemort flickered an eyelid. "Go ahead," he said. "I expect it to be worth my time."

Harry smirked assuredly. "It unquestionably will be."

With that, he propped himself onto his elbows and, in the midst of the silence, hissed his strategies for the two rapt Dark Lords to hear.

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**It might be moving slightly slowly - but I promise you a chapter full of juicy action in the next update!**

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	20. Long Time Friends

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Hello again! I hope you're not all tired of me; I guess I update especially fast in my school holidays! Anyway, I wish that you are all well and that you take joy in reading this as much as I love writing it.**

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**Without further ado, let's get on with the story!**

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The material was light as silk and as cold to the touch as water; it flowed and rippled like an awash black river at the faintest tremble of wind.

The fabric was so smooth that the light would hit it and bounce immediately off.

It enfolded around his body like a pair of dark wings, almost weightless, allowing the best of agility and movement.

According to Voldemort, countless powerful protective charms had been cast upon the attire; no spells could effortlessly penetrate the fortifications should they happen to slip past the corporeal magical shields. Of course, with each strike or clout it bore, the charms would be crippled… so it would still be up to Harry to take care of himself.

Pity the cloth did nothing to defend him against the coldness of the winter weather. A shiver coursed through him; it was even less effective than the ordinary robes Harry chose to wear. It took all of his effort to grind down on his teeth and keep them from chattering.

To a stranger's eye, the black robes were no different from any other custom Death Eater garment, but the Dark Lord had taken care to ensure that they were the finest.

_After all,_ Harry thought bitterly, _he was a precious Horcrux._

Ever since the night the Dark Lord discovered his Horcrux identity, his status appeared to have drastically adjusted… for the worse.  
Aside from being treated with excessive indulgence – which Harry did not mind when it could be used to his own advantage – he was given very limited freedom and more imposed restrictions than ever.

_Merlin, he hated being bubble wrapped like a fragile doll. _

"Harry…"

He felt a steely hand on his arm.

"There will be no heroics from you, or I swear, I will butcher you myself and feed the pieces of flesh to crows," Tom threatened. "And if fighting breaks out, you will stand not rush headfirst into a duel –"

"And neither will you betray me and return the children unconditionally to Dumbledore," Voldemort interrupted ominously. "If there is the slimmest _trace_ of such an attempt, you shall be hunted down and punished in the most brutal manner."

Harry found the humour within him to crack a smile, knowing he had no intentions of simply carting the prisoners to the old Headmaster. "I think you do not trust me, my Lord."

The Dark Lord was diplomatic enough to lie, "You cannot be more incorrect, Harry, I have immeasurable faith in you. You are my charge."

"Then why the suspicion?"

"Sometimes things do not follow the tracks of your expectations," Voldemort said candidly. "I have an appreciation for preparation of the mind."

"Understandable," Harry commented.

"It is beyond a matter of understanding," Tom Riddle said. "It is necessary for _you_ to be equipped for all obstacles that come across your path… including the thin possibility of a grave encounter with Dumbledore."

"Is it paranoia that I smell?" Harry jested, giving a pretend sniff of the air.

Tom's gaze darkened significantly at the indifferent nonchalance from the young teenager. "You must regard this with the _utmost_ seriousness!"

Harry blinked and held up both his hands as though to pacify the Slytherin Heir. "Okay, okay," he said calmingly. "'Careful is my middle name.'"

"On the contrary," Tom hissed, "'_careless'_ is your middle name. I warn you, I will not be burdened by the message that Dumbledore has you hostage and that I have to play the saviour in shining armour whose mission is to rescue you."

"No one expects you to save me," Harry muttered.

"And yet the tiresome job always lands with me," Riddle retorted. "I thought the Dark Lord would volunteer this time… but _I_ am to supervise you once again."

"Hmmm…"

Harry was fidgeting with the silver Death Eater mask in his hand, only half listening to the sentences that were emerging rapidly from the young man's mouth.

"My misfortune, I suppose." Tom swerved his gaze sharply meet a pair of uninterested green eyes. "Having you been paying attention?" he demanded cuttingly.

"Pardon? Er, no…" Harry answered absently. "_Wait_… I mean yes… yes, I have been hanging on to your every syllable!"

A dirty look flashed in his direction. "Dumbledore will hop from the Astronomy Tower at the first chance to hold you captor; he will literally do anything," Tom said dangerously. "And when he seizes you, he will rummage through your mind and slash out all the relevant information before finally delivering the killing blow to the poor sacrificial lamb in order to destroy the Dark Lord once and for all. Do .You._ Understand?"_

"Yes."

"If you die, I will bring you back only to kill you again."

"I _know_."

Harry lifted the silver mask to his head and arranged it securely so that it was all but glued immovably to his face. His emerald eyes peeked out snugly from the sliced serpentine slits. It did no harm to his sense of sight and it disguised his features flawlessly. While the mask was on, none would be aware it was Harry Potter who was concealed behind it.

He would be a regular Death Eater, nothing more.

"My facial characteristics will be covered," Harry insisted. "Unless Dumbledore has X-ray eyes, he won't even get an inkling of who I am."

Tom heaved a long suffering sigh that indicated precisely how exasperating his companion was. "He may recognise your voice," he said.

"I doubt an old man can memorise the pitches and tenors of every single voice he hears," Harry remarked. "He has seen me a rare few times, and he doesn't even know we work with Lord Voldemort now."

"Trust me, Harry," Riddle said, "you are peculiarly unforgettable. It may be because you make it a habit to do things worth writing about on a daily basis..."

Harry's finger brushed against the polished wood of his wand folded beneath his sleeves, and he grasped it. "I am not wholly incompetent, despite what you may believe." He tilted his chin defiantly upwards.

"I never suggested you were inept," Tom said.

"If you were unskilled, I would never permit you to lead an entire Death Eater squad into the territory of the Light Lord," Voldemort said. "Nor would you be a part of the action today."

Harry nodded.

"However…" the Dark Lord resumed, "it is arguably too early to allow you out of my sight and pay Dumbledore a visit. Perhaps it is wisest for you to remain here while Tom goes alone."

"My strategy, my scheme," Harry said determinedly. "I will be going… if only just to get out of here for a while and enjoy whatever independence I can. Moreover, my duelling abilities may come in convenience."

"Do not participate in a duel if you can avoid it," Voldemort instructed. "And even then, do not reveal your true power.

"Fine," Harry said compliantly.

"Should the worse come, Tom will know to apparate you back here before anti-apparition wards are put up."

"Okay, sure."

Voldemort gazed levelly at him. "If Dumbledore refuses to negotiate with us –"

"He will not dare," Harry answered steadfastly. "If he declines our fair offer, he will have the outrage of the public to cope with, not to mention the fact that the entire Order of the Phoenix campaign would go ballistic." He carried the smirk of the cat that ate the canary. "The parents will come to the realisation that Dumbledore is anything _but_ the sinless, doting grandpa he makes out to be. Give it a week, and his lack of concern for children will be all over the newspapers in England."

"Mmm, you may be spot on," Voldemort said.

"I know I _am_."

"Such self-assurance you portray," the Dark Lord chuckled. "Nonetheless, I do suspect your optimism is not wrongly placed. The element of surprise works to our advantage and our ground plan is fool proof, even if there are holes."

"A chain is only as strong as its weakest link," Harry said smoothly. "We will cover all the bases. As long as something can be exploited in weakness, then we may all fall."

"Yes, yes," Voldemort murmured approvingly. "I have a team of fifteen Death Eaters all set and waiting for your orders. Each one of them is of good reputation and of high standing – they will not be the weak link in the chain."

"They know what is going to happen?" he asked.

"Tom has explained to them in detail." The Dark Lord raised a hand to grip Harry's shoulder in an uncommonly tender motion of encouragement. "Some members of the Inner Circle are there, Lucius included. I ruled out Bellatrix because I fear she will resist you."

Strangely, Harry did not experience any sensations of anxiety at the physical touch or the temptation to flinch away.

"Sounds as exceptional a team as anyone is going to get," Harry said.

"You have earned it."

"Thank you for your generosity, my Lord."

A teasing smile pulled at the edges of Lord Voldemort's pale lips. "If I recall correctly, you said my generosity could not match depth of a tablespoon."

"I must amend my observation," Harry said humorously. "Your generosity has grown to challenge the depth of a shallow puddle of water."

The Dark Lord laughed in a combination of amusement and disbelief at his antics. "You sassy child," he reprimanded. "Who gave you permission to saunter up to me bold as brass and toss insults in my face?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

Harry found himself cuffed upside the head gently by the Dark Lord. "Dumbledore was a fool to threaten you with death, thus making an enemy out of you," Voldemort said. "It was a bad move on his part, but a change in the winds for me."

"Dumbledore will not know what hit him."

"Very well," the dark wizard said. "Time is moving fast, and we should too. Tom shall take you to your team."

Riddle frowned at Harry in warning. "Don't you dare remove yourself from my side once we are on the move, or I will personally make you a leash. If you run off while they are duelling –"

Harry exhaled noisily. _"Fine."_

"I anticipate your success," the Dark Lord spoke lowly. "I trust you will execute this undertaking gracefully without any disappointments. On the other hand, should this end in as an appalling failure, you Harry, will be held _entirely accountable."_

Despite himself, the words intimidated him; he tried to ignore the uncomfortable twinge of fear.

"Whether we are blessed with good fortune or not, there will be no risks of suffering defeat," Harry promised resolutely. "If only for this once, Dumbledore is going under. We will _not_ fail."

"Good," Voldemort said. "Just remember that as the leading member today, you will be answerable for whatever happens." He raised a hand in dismissal.

However, almost as an afterthought, the Dark Lord turned. "I never thought you would ever direct a Death Eater raid, Harry. Perhaps, you will truly one of us one day." His blue eyes shimmered like ice touched by the cold rays of sun in winter. "Good luck. Both of you."

—0O0—

He was sucked into a familiar abyss, with what seemed to be richly coloured lights surrounding him. There was a period of whirling madness… before all was quiet again.

His feet were on the cobblestone paved ground, and Tom Riddle stood elegantly next to him, his face too disguised by the silver mask.

His green eyes sparkled in exhilaration at the upcoming venture and the edges of his mouth tweaked upwards into the ghost of a smile. He traded a glance with the Slytherin Heir before turning to the Death Eaters under his command.

"You know what has been instructed of you," Harry said coolly. "Complete them to the best of your ability and await my next orders." He shifted his glance to the small stores situated along the sides of the streets. "It is a Hogsmeade weekend; students will be out roaming. Go ahead, give them a scare."

Voldemort's followers quickly obeyed, spreading out over the petite village of Hogsmeade in the manner of a foreboding black fog.

The sight assured Harry that all was developing as he had previously arranged and that the entirety of his plan would be carried out. The occupants would never stand a chance against trained servants of the Dark Lord.

He debated over whether his actions were immoral, whether he had truly changed into a merciless viper… In his heart, he knew that although he was working alongside the Dark Lord, he was still doing the right thing.

Only now, he had no more childish ideas about separating light and dark. The borders between the two realms were vague, and one never knew when one crossed from one side to the other. Harry really did not care any longer if he was dark or light – though he suspected he was more of the former than the latter.

If he was dark, or possibly a dark shade of grey, he had no uncertainties regarding whether he or Dumbledore was the better person.

The Headmaster, despite being the 'leader of the light', was an old and cunning man who owned a heart which may once have glowed but was now tight and shrivelled.

Harry Potter hated him with a vengeance. Truthfully, he had never honestly had an appetite for being used like a lamb to the slaughter.

_No, he was not fighting the light or the dark; he did not support any one of the other. He was fighting something known as corruption. _

And if he _had_ to use underhanded methods to achieve it, so be it.

The peace popped like a balloon pierced by the sharp point of a needle, erupting into spine-chilling screams and outright panic. In a split second, witches and wizards were charging like headless ants out of the stores and bumping headfirst into one another.

Harry felt a sting of sympathy for the teenagers whose visit to the village had been ruined but he could only look on. He got a few glimpses of frightened Third Year students who huddled in a cowering group by the entrance of Honeydukes, wide eyed like deers caught in the headlights.

"Feeling sentimental?" Tom asked, mockingly.

"No."

Windows shattered in a storm of fragmented glass shards. Children, horrified, ducked for cover while the only available adults, the store owners, armed themselves with wands and dashed gallantly onto the streets teeming with wizards in black.

"I can see it," Tom said serenely, "the contradiction in your eyes."

"You must either be going blind or crazy," Harry murmured, fixated on the ghastly picture before him.

"It is futile to conceal emotions from me, Harry," Tom said. "I understand you best; I can read you like an open book."

Weapons were brandished, threats were uttered, and dangerous, vividly coloured spells flashed through the air to bury themselves in their targets' chests. A Death Eater fell shrieking under the extended wand of a furious woman who wielded it like a baton.

The woman only revelled in her triumph for the shortest of moments before she too was blasted backwards like a mere figurine into a tree by the sheer power of an explosion.

"The raid reminds me of the one we were caught in," Harry said. "We were eating… when they came. I got lured by Daphne to the Dark Lord and you ran out to duel his followers without a wand."

"You identify with them," Tom stated, gesturing at the wildly shouting children.

"Sort of."

A pair of lovers who had been walking arm in arm a minute ago had joined forces with a team of Sixth Years and was having a go at the Death Eaters, faces rigid in concentration and repugnance.

"I think it is ironic of me to arrange an attack when I have been a victim in one myself…"

"It is different," Tom said. "You ordered them not to hurt any innocents. Organising a commendable –"

_"Ignis fune!" _A jinx raced towards Tom like a streak of greased lightning, fizzling with power and purpose. It was aimed at his back. And Riddle, the damned Slytherin, could not see it.

Harry's eyes widened in alarm and he lunged forward to shove Tom out of the way. Fortunately, the thrust took Tom by surprise, and the young man staggered backwards, barely in time to avoid it.

However, it caught Harry on the wrist.

The spell, instantly, formed an intricate, fire ring around his wrist, with an eerie resemblance to that of a radiant bracelet. And then…

He gasped in pain.

The fire blazed onto his sensitive skin and devoted itself to the task of eating away his flesh. Under the excruciating heat, his skin blackened, withered like a dried up petal, and peeled away before his very eyes.

He stifled a scream.

The entire expanse of his hand was ignited and the flames, in an uncharacteristic behaviour, splashed in a water-like manner onto his elbow. He felt as if he had no more control over his limbs than the spell.

His wand dropped, against his will, and clattered with an empty sound onto the ground.

_"Harry!" _

For the first time in his life, he heard a sign of genuine distress in Riddle's suave voice – perhaps he was hallucinating.

_"Aguamenti!"_

A jet of clear, pure water shot from the tip of the Slytherin's wand and sprayed Harry, but it did nothing to soothe his agony because the fluid vanished upon coming in contact with the licking flames.

Someone was yelling. It invoked a headache within him. He just wished for that idiot be quiet so that he could withstand his torment in peace. He sank to his knees.

"It won't kill you," Tom snarled at him. "Shut up and live with it while I get rid –"

Harry realised it was him who had been yelling.

His whole body was alight, and he was being engulfed… It felt as if he would be cremated and reduced to ashes if Tom Bloody Riddle did not pick up his pace and end the curse.

Suddenly –

"Mudblood!" Riddle spat savagely. "What did you do to him?"

And the feminine voice that answered in an odd combination of nervousness and rebelliousness – oh God – sounded ever so familiar to Harry's ears. He groaned.

"The Death Eater deserves it," the girl bit back. "Professor Dumbledore was right when he taught me that spell. He said I would need it one day."

"You know the counter spell." It was not phrased as a question but as a statement.

"I do," the girl responded.

"Cast it." The order was pronounced in a sibilant hiss that lingered in the bitter air. "Cast the spell."

"No."

_"Crucio."_

There was a soft _thud_ next to Harry, and in the next second, his head was split into quarters by the unending screams of the female. She seemed to be making an effort to suppress them… And from the slight quakes Harry felt, he knew she was writhing from the Cruciatus.

Then, it stopped. "Are you ready?" Tom asked lowly, withdrawing his wand for a moment.

In an exhausted pant, the girl answered, "No."

_"Crucio." _  
The menace and venom dripping from the Slytherin Heir's lips would have surprised Harry if he had not been in a daze.

The cries, as a result, hit a new level.

Gathering all his obtainable energy, Harry squeezed open his eyes. To see a headful of dishevelled, bushy brown hair that had immediately grabbed his recognition.

"Tom, _stop!" _he rasped hoarsely. "Leave her alone."

The Cruciatus Curse was quelled. He saw Hermione Granger, with the bossy appearance he remembered so clearly, heave herself onto her feet and glare at Tom. "If you think I will spare a lowlife like you, you are very much mistaken," she said huskily.

Tom made to backhand her across the face for her tactless words. "Mudblood, my associate is still in pain. There is more than one way to skin a cat; I will not hesitate to _persuade_ you –"

"Hermione," Harry croaked.

A look of shock flitted across Granger's features. _"Harry?" _she asked incredulously. "Harry Potter, is that _you?"  
_With an astonishingly fast speed, she raced to his side and raised her wand. _"Ignem subiecit."_

The fire subsided.  
Harry allowed himself a sigh of relief, his green eyes glancing out at his dear childhood companion.

Hermione's fingers were promptly all over his face, struggling to strip away the heavy silver mask that hid his features.

He pushed her hands off and stood. "I'm sorry," he said. "I cannot show you, Hermione."

The intelligent girl, now sixteen years old, let out a choked sob. "Oh, Harry, I haven't seen you for… years," she said. "I don't know if I should be happy or sad. Oh Merlin, you serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now, don't you?"

"Yes," he said. "Ever since I risked my life for your Dumbledore and in return he asked me if I minded being used as a sacrificial victim."

"He wouldn't do that."

Tom Riddle stepped in front of Harry and faced Hermione domineeringly. "Do you know everything about the dear Headmaster of Hogwarts, or only the lies?"

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	21. On Your Doorstep

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me... though I own an entire shelf of the books.**

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_Tom Riddle stepped in front of Harry and faced Hermione domineeringly. "Do you know everything about the dear Headmaster of Hogwarts, or only the lies?"_

Hermione whirled upon the older Slytherin indignantly like a miniature hurricane, cheeks reddened with dislike.

"I'll be grateful if you keep these indecent comments to yourself, you slimy worm," she retorted heatedly.

"Resorting to petty insults?" Tom raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Dumbledore is twice the man you can ever dream of being – whatever untruths he fabricates in his lifetime cannot match the amount you spin in one day."

"That is a rather large conclusion to jump to."

"His actions are for the Greater Good and yours are done for the sake of your own worthless benefit!"

"Harry, your female friend is more foolish than I gave her credit for." Tom Riddle scoffed sarcastically, "'The Greater Good…' I wonder who taught her that… She is rather talented at mirroring her idol's words, don't you think? A bit like a parrot, I suppose."

"Oh, is that what _you_ think?" Hermione snapped sharply at the future Dark Lord.

Tom's other eyebrow went up to join its mate. "Yes," he drawled smoothly. "Why else would I say so? Go ahead, good little lapdog, why don't you mimic another one of his favourite phrases for us to hear?"

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, unsure of by what means he could stop the angry exchange before it got too much out of hand.  
Hermione and Tom were both his friends but it seemed Dumbledore had really imprinted his message hard into Hermione's heart.

"Quit being such a hypocrite," Hermione snarled. "Tell me, how many times you have grovelled at his feet after being graced with a generous dose of the Cruciatus. How many times have you kissed the hem of his robes? You treat You-Know-Who as if he is God!"

"None," Tom said airily. "He is not my master."

Hermione was struck dumb. _"Excuse me?" _

"Harry and I work _with_ him," Tom said smugly, "not _for_ him, which is more than you can say for yourself."

"I _do not_ work _for_ Dumbledore," Hermione insisted, her furry hair crackling with what appeared to be electricity. "He is an excellent professor and the students follow him because they want to, not because they are forced to."

"Ah, yes, did your _excellent professor_ teach you the spell that caused Harry, who is possibly your best and _only_ friend judging by your unattractive personality, great suffering?" Tom asked silkily.

"Her personality is not unattractive," Harry automatically defended.

"Her unwillingness to listen to the disagreements of others and her haughty, overbearing attitude is a trait that only you can stomach," Riddle remarked, cuttingly honest.

"Simply because she chooses – very wisely, I must say – to not listen to _you_ does not mean she is not considerate to others," Harry said adamantly.

"While she is able to speak at alarming volumes and rates, she is also proficient in tuning out the opinions of others, _including you, Harry_."

"You have no right –"

"She even gives me the impression of someone who delights in her own words like music from a fine opera."

"That is enough, Tom," Harry firmly said, with an apologetic glance at Hermione who was speechlessly gaping at the Slytherin Heir with a flabbergasted expression.

"Oh, look," the young Dark Lord marvelled, "I've managed to make her silent… It is quite a feat, you know."

Harry gritted his teeth. "I cannot let you insult my companions –"

"I am being perfectly honest," Tom said flippantly. "Your friend accused me herself of being a deceitful snake, so I am showing her how truthful I can be."

"Well, _I'm _asking you to close your mouth!"

Tom ignored him. "She is judgemental, self-righteous and close-minded, and has a prudish morality that contradicts real life."

"Tom –!"

"To make a long story short, in her mind, only her way is the right way."

"You've only _just_ met her; you are being biased," Harry snapped sharply.

"Her inflexible and stiff personality qualities cannot allow her to see past the flowery surface of Dumbledore even if he prances in front of her rose-tinted glasses in his underclothes," Tom continued coldly. "And that is why, Harry, you are wasting your time by simply conversing with her –"

Riddle was interrupted in midsentence by Hermione Granger.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, truly! I really didn't mean to hit you with that spell, I promise! I could never, _never _hurt you like that," Hermione cried. She reached out for his arm. "The nature of the curse was quite ferocious; I vowed to not use it on _anyone_ but Death Eaters when Dumbledore taught it to me."

"It's fine, 'Mione," Harry soothed, smiling. "Take no notice of Tom. He is a malicious git."

To his alarm, the girl's eyes welled up with tears that defiantly refused to fall.

"Your associate is right, you know, about me. Ever since you went away with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I've been doing stuff alone most of the time. Of course, I meet study buddies in the evenings occasionally but…"

"Well, at least we have seen each other now," Harry said, with forced cheer. "I only hope our next meeting won't be under such gloomy circumstances." As he said this, he glared pointedly at Tom.

Hermione opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something but closed it again. Then, after a while, she seemed to make up her mind about something.

"Harry, you must know He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's temper better than anyone," she said, trying to sound reasonable. "Surely you've been tortured by him before…"

Harry stiffened abruptly at the statement and pursed his lips; he was reluctant to divulge private details regarding his punishments with Voldemort. "Hmm," he said instead.

"It must've hurt, with him being the most powerful Dark Lord the wizarding world has ever seen and all," Hermione said gently. "Do you ever fear him? Haven't you ever entertained the idea of running away… and never going back to him? Maybe… with Dumbledore's help?"

Suddenly, Harry realised the point that Hermione was subtly attempting to suggest to him – and he knew he would not even consider it. "I have not just _thought_ of running away, 'Mione. I actually have _done_ it before. Trust me, it did not end well."

The know-it-all girl blanched. "You mean _he_ captured and disciplined you?"

"No," Harry said, noting the meaningful glance Tom sent in his direction. "I mean I was forced to return to him, in the end, for my own good. Or else, I would have been killed."

"Five years ago," Tom said, picking up the tale smoothly, "Harry was the Dark Lord's apprentice. Therefore, he had more access than most people to the Dark Lord's secrets, and he freed Dumbledore, Grindelwald and McGonagall."

Hermione gasped. "Professor Dumbledore _never_ told us _Harry_ saved him –"

"I expected as such," Harry said grimly. "The unfortunate thing, however, was that Voldemort found out." He ignored the cringe coming from Hermione at the use of the name.

"And you can imagine the graphic niceties for yourself," Tom said. "Harry escaped and lived with me for five years before he bumped into your dear Dumbledore again. This time, he requested Harry to sacrifice his life for _the Greater Good_."

Hermione's soft brown eyes had been stretched to the size of shocked light bulbs.

"Needless to say, he did not agree and fled," Tom said. "On the run from both the Light Lord and the Dark Lord, we could not persevere for long and the wisest option was to reunite with Voldemort."

"Sorry, Hermione, I'll be signing my own death warrant if I am to seek assistance from Dumbledore," Harry said regretfully.

"There are so many things that do not add up," Hermione maintained. "_Why_ would your death benefit Dumbledore? _Why_ would Voldemort not kill you in revenge? _Why _would you be a part of this barbaric raid today?"

Harry gazed evenly at her. "Do you not believe me?"

"It's not that I don't want to, Harry." Hermione's expression turned begging. "It's that I can't. It's too illogical."

"I told you this would happen," Tom said infuriatingly, looking at Harry. He brought his wand down in an arc. _"Obliviate." _It struck the dead centre of Hermione's chest.

She blinked, as if she did not understand her whereabouts before her gaze found the two figures in black robes. "Death Eaters," she muttered to herself and drew her wand.

Immediately, Harry saw Tom spring forward in a duel with Hermione. The know-it-all was pulling out her full magical strength but the young Dark Lord was going easy on her.  
_Good. _Harry would kill him if he hurt her.

Finally, after a few traded curses and colourful curse-words astonishingly leaving Hermione's mouth, Tom had her pinned to the ground.

"Go back," he said coldly, "and tell Dumbledore that we have a couple of Hogwarts students held hostage. Tell him to remove the wards of Hogwarts and we will stop the assault on Hogsmeade."

Hermione launched herself up and with a blithering glare at Tom, left in a sprint.

"Do not look so shocked, Harry," Tom said. "You expected her to react like this, surely?"

"Yes, but there is a rather large difference between expecting and experiencing."

"At least our plan is going excellently. I daresay that enough students have alerted Dumbledore for him to be alarmed now."

"Yes."

"Gather your Death Eaters and we will summon the rest of the followers at the manor to transport the children to our hands."

"They are not _my_ Death Eaters," Harry said, but he obeyed anyway.

—0O0—

Harry remained motionlessly tall, while his black robes flapped like they had a life of their own in the relentless wind. He suppressed a shiver – though he suspected it might not be fully blameable on the cold.

The sheer presence of Tom alongside him brought him immeasurable relief; he did not think he could do this on his own. He was so nervous. There was a team of fifteen Death Eaters behind him, each with two or more Order children bound magically to them. None of them could risk having anyone escape.

Hearing the old man's cheery voice and seeing the timeworn form was an unbearable reminder of the occurrences that had scraped all of Harry's trust away from the Headmaster. He did not wish to remind himself.

"Do you think he'll hand them over?" Harry asked.

"Of course. Unless he is seeking trouble, which would also work out for us," was Tom's calm reply.

He could see a narrow path winding around the mountain which eventually opened to the edge of a great lake, its contents smooth as glass. From where he stood, the sparkles of sunlight hitting water were visible to his eyes.

Perched atop the high mountain on the other side, its windows shimmering under the clear azure sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.  
_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

His first sight of that castle had been vividly engraved in gold on his mind, never to fade away. Harry wondered how he had come to making an attempt to force the owner of the mighty fortress to pay for his actions.

It was completely Dumbledore's fault that Harry had leant to loathe him more than the cockroaches he constantly crushed under his feet.

Like a cobra, Harry made it a rule never to strike before he was attacked… But when he was threatened, his life put on the line, he would not hesitate. Unlike a cobra, he had no fangs and no capability to fully bring down the menace.  
Oh, if only he could give half of what Dumbledore had given him back…

"Are you ready?" The question came from Riddle, who offered him a reassuring smile. "Or are you going to outwait Dumbledore until Judgement Day for Jesus himself to banish Dumbledore to hell?"

"I am ready," he murmured. "_Omnes Audiant." _He aimed his wand at his own throat.

Voldemort had taught him the spell. It was exceedingly useful for transmitting messages to people who did not necessarily want to receive them, according to the Dark Lord. His voice could be carried over a humungous distance and directly into the ears of those he targeted. And now… he was targeting the entire population of Hogwarts.

—0O0—

Draco Malfoy had been assigned a three feet essay on Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration and an extra one foot essay on the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law by Professor McGonagall. She expected them back before the end of the week.

Obviously, he had known that food was the first exception to the law that governed the wizarding world – his father would have had his hide if he didn't – but he had no clue what the other four were.

He knew that while food could not be outright created from nothing, it could be multiplied if one already had some food, or enlarged or even summoned if one knew the approximate location.

So he had done some last minute reading and sat down to write the shorter essay, keen to impress McGonagall in addition to scoring himself an outstanding mark or perhaps snatching up some points for his House.

He supposed time changed people… it had certainly changed him beyond belief. Not that if he paced in front of a mirror the adjustment could be seen.

Even to his own eyes, he still looked as gorgeous as five years ago, if he overlooked the bags under his stormy grey eyes. His hair was as blond as before, and fell down over his forehead in silky waves in the style he had always been fond of.

Over the years, he had grown in height, and he was certain there would have been plenty of young ladies flooding to him, drowning in his charisma, if he did not bear the foul label as the child of notorious Death Eater parents.

Now, he only had the ugly pug face of Pansy Parkinson drooling uncontrollably at him.

At any rate, the change was within him and not on the surface. Aside from despising Dumbledore and his old Grindelwald friend, Draco had grown relatively attached to Professor McGonagall.

It was mindboggling how he had come to admire her sense of pride and justice, and it was even more of a shock why he had once actually accepted her offer of tea in her office… After all, his father would kill Draco if he caught air of his spawn fraternizing with the enemy.

Still… That was the point, wasn't it?  
Lucius Malfoy was _not_ here right now; he had not been here for half a decade.

He had not seen his parents for longer than he cared to remember – but he could not wait for rescue. He had discovered the hard way, through disappointment and weariness that life simply just went on.

The Head of Gryffindor was an aged woman, far past her prime, but at least she had kept her mind clear and untainted by the lies spurting from Dumbledore.

Draco could not help but feel grateful for that. He was glad he had living proof, which arrived strictly on time to class everyday for her students, that not every bloody person in the universe was blinded by the glow of an eerie new star: Dumbledore.

It was sickening to watch the entire school hang onto every syllable that passed the old wizard's lips, worshiping him and taking every word as law.  
It was like they were utterly unaware of the magnetism Dumbledore cunningly wielded: the smiling facade and the doting manner… He had to be nearly as shrewd as Lord Voldemort himself.

Despite the shared mistrust of Grindelwald between the professors, McGonagall was the only one to have taken a stand. Once a Gryffindor lioness, always a Gryffindor lioness. Only, Draco never imagined having a high opinion of that Gryffindor lioness.

There was always an iciness shrouding her, a hard glaze over her eyes, when she dealt with the late, 'retired' dark wizard. She never attempted to disguise her abhorrence towards Grindelwald.

She no longer even bothered to treat Dumbledore, the headmaster she had worked under for decades, with the former respect. Her nostrils could often be caught flaring when he patronised her with idle chatter of the Order's successes.

More than on one occasion had the Gryffindor Head cornered Draco in an empty classroom and questioned him on his well-being, giving him invitations of tea in her office a few times.

It wasn't until recently, a few months ago, that he had finally accepted for the first time. It had been pleasant, talking to someone who sounded as if she cared about him.

What had unnerved him was why it had been a _Gryffindor teacher, _someone unarguably light, that extended her kindness to _him._

The severe, old-fashioned way with which she picked students apart no longer aroused Draco's dislike. He had talked stiffly at first, taking care not to spread any of his personal information, but he had loosened after a couple of visits.

He had learnt to put aside his former prejudgment and focus on his present time.

Since the special student-teacher connection they had developed, Draco had been aiming to do well in her class. He had always been a high-achiever, after all.

It was just his luck that when he had almost finished his essay, that Crabbe, the clumsy baboon of a moron had to come blundering in his direction, thus resulting in spilling ink all over his precious work.

Draco had sighed and quelled the urge to curse his minion before getting out a fresh parchment and starting all over again.

He had been halfway through when his mind was abruptly crippled by a stab of pain as an unknown presence invaded it.

His quill accidentally pierced through the paper.

Everything slipped through his fingers and he was suddenly clutching his head for dear life, trying desperately to get rid of the soft vibrating sound that bore directly into his head instead of entering through his ears.

Draco snatched up his wand, determined to get rid of the phantom or whatever the hell it was, but he hesitated. He could not possibly send a curse spinning at his own brains.

From the dormitories, he heard boyish shouts of discomfort and girlish wails about headaches – and the realisation dawned upon him that something big would be happening on this day.

He had heard tales of the Dark Lord being a matchless Legilimens, skills unparalleled by even Dumbledore.

Once, perhaps when he had been eleven, Draco remembered asking his father what the worst punishment the Dark Lord doled out was, and Lucius in turn had replied, "The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. In my opinion, worst the Dark Lord can do is to read it, control it, unhinge it. In the past it was often the Dark Lord's pleasure to invade the minds of his victims, creating visions designed to torture them into madness. Only after extracting the last exquisite ounce of agony, only when he had them literally begging for death would he finally...kill them."

Draco quaked in his boots. Surely… they had not displeased the Dark Lord so much that he vented his fury on the students of Slytherin…?

He wondered how much mental agony he could take before he was literally begging for death, as Lucius had described.

Another jolt of pain blinded him.

If it truly was the Dark Lord, and he meant them harm…

McGonagall.

McGonagall had to know.

Draco heaved himself to his feet, swayed dizzily for a moment, and staggered out of the Slytherin common room.

Unsurprisingly, there were no students to be seen in the corridors. It was a Hogsmeade weekend and everyone was out to enjoy themselves.

When he finally managed to lurch like a damned drunkard to McGonagall's office, teetering at the door, he found that the pain had subsided slightly. He frowned. It was uncharacteristic of the Dark Lord to give them the luxury of a rest.

He pushed the door open to see the old Head of House at her mahogany writing desk with her head in her hands.

"Professor McGonagall?" he ventured.

She looked up and gave a tight-lipped smile. "Mr Malfoy."

"The students from my House are –"

"I know," she answered grimly. "It is happening to the entire school."

Draco blanched.

"Do not fret," she said firmly. "We do not know who is behind this – but even if it _is_ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named he cannot do us any destruction apart from the childish bother of headaches. And, Mr Malfoy, I think you will agree with me when I say that headaches do not kill."

Then, there was a fizzling sound in his mind, like a wire connection.

Both of them stilled.

"There has been a most dreadful incident… I trust many of you still remain ignorant of it even though it is the duty of your leader to report it to you…" A honeyed voice, silken with the glimmer of youth spoke so close to them that Draco jumped to his feet, wand gripped tightly in his hand, thinking there was a third person in the room.

"It is by no means a freak accident," the voice went on, dulcet as the trill of a blue jay. "Ask your leading light for proof… However, I cannot guarantee he will not lie to your faces… so I will tell you myself… Your classmates have experienced a Death Eater raid in Hogsmeade."

By 'leading light' Draco guessed the speaker meant Dumbledore.

McGonagall froze in shock at the news of the raid, suddenly appearing ten years older. Her hands, frail and bony, grasped at her wand.

"And although none has been harmed, I will not leave until I get what I have come for."

The professor's eyes widened, flickering in anxiety.

"He will either confront me and negotiate or he can dwell within his old hole with the safety of the children of his Order to worry about…"

"Draco," Professor McGonagall whispered, "do you find the voice… familiar?"

He shook his head slowly. It triggered no memories but he was glad it was not the Dark Lord's.

"We have imprisoned the Order children for a few months now, and there has been no trace of a planned rescue. We are beginning to fear that the Light's Saviour has abandoned his virtuous morals and is intending to sacrifice the children like pigs for slaughter." Mild laughter followed the words as if the speaker meant everything in good humour.

"Unlike your honourable headmaster and his dark lord companion, _we_ understand the importance of parental love to a child. Without it, they can simply… cripple away like dead leaves in autumn. They have already sustained heavy losses and we do not wish for this to continue," the voice paused. "Every drop of tear spilled is a waste, but we are merciful.

"We do not pretend to be collaborating purely as a favour to you, nor will we lie that we do not want this as much as you do…" The voice halted for the words to sink in. "Our leader, the Dark Lord, is losing sleep over the welfare of the sons and daughters of his supporters… and has come to the decision that if Dumbledore will not go to him, he will take the first step forward."

Draco heard a deep inhalation of air from McGonagall as she wrenched herself up and stalked towards the door. "Whoever is talking to us is proposing cooperation over the good of the children," she said. "I will not let Dumbledore back away from this… God forbid he does nothing."

"We have brought your children to your front doorstep. Whether you welcome them home depends entirely on you. We only have one condition – you will return our children to our lord and to their parents…"

His breath hitched and Draco's heartbeats quickened.

McGonagall offered him an encouraging smile and gestured for him to follow her. "Come, Mr Malfoy, I believe you are going home."

"We are suggesting a trade of the children… and if you accept, take the children that Professor Dumbledore has hoarded and step out of the wards where we can see them…" The voice faded away like a ghost. "We will be waiting. You have half an hour."

* * *

**Sorry... God, I feel embarrassed... may I ask for 40 reviews please? Sorry.  
(Goes away to hide.)**


	22. Heartfelt Reunion

**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling would sue me if I claimed Harry Potter.**

**Yay! I am dancing, I am dancing for joy! Fifty reviews? Are you kidding me? I am on cloud nine... As a treat of gratitude, here is another early update. I hope you are not fed up at my update speed. **

**Special thanks to Amortal, Boblove123, Dormiveglia, Eton, Kat-Knife and Rosellyia for their words of encouragement! **

**To be honest, I feel this chapter is a bit forced (especially the McGonagall and Dumbledore part when the old codger was doing some manipulating) but I'd be glad if you tell me what you think. :)**

**Seeing as you have generously given me fifty reviews last time, I was wondering if I can ask for 45 this time. I know, I'm being a greedy pig as usual - but I'd sincerely ****_love_**** it if you can indulge me like Voldemort pampers Harry!**

**On another note, I know I am disappointing many of you but this is not a slash. **

* * *

His fingers, clipped forcefully around his wand like the talons on a bird of prey, had been assaulted brutally by the chill in the air. Numb, almost sensationless, deadened to the minutes that painstakingly crawled past.

It was a pity that his mind, unlike his fingers, was sharply attentive to every movement, every crunch of leaves under the boots of the followers. He would not have the luxury of relaxation before the old headmaster made his appearance.

_Dumbledore must be dealing with his own dilemmas, weighing up his options and pondering his old head on whether he should return the children, _he thought.

Still, when ten minutes had gone by with the snail-like pace of a century, he was swiftly becoming convinced that a measured and excruciating type of torture was being applied to both his body and emotion, with more on the latter.

Maddeningly, the Slytherin Heir seemed to be taking immensely good care of his nerves. Each time Harry snuck a quick look at the young man, Riddle appeared for all the world like he could not be less concerned with the time that Dumbledore was taking.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "When do you think he is coming out?"

"When he realises he would lose all his support if he does not comply with us," Tom replied infuriatingly.

If he was honest to himself – and Harry normally tried to be – the serenity of the young Dark Lord was beginning to gnaw on his patience, as was the answer Riddle just gave, which didn't even answer the question properly.

"How can you be so calm?" Harry asked, shaking his head in exasperation. "I can't understand you."

"Nobody is requiring you to understand; you simply have to learn from me," Tom said. "Good things come to those who wait, Harry."

Silence fell again.

Tom Laidback Riddle seemed to be the only person who was unruffled; Harry could sense the restlessness of the Death Eaters as they whispered and paced amongst themselves, talking nineteen to the dozen about the success rate of their mission.

His own nerves were being rubbed raw by the rising edginess.

An exceptionally strong gust of wind whipped through the trees like a banshee, and what was left of the shrivelled leaves deserted the safety of their branches to become prisoners of the blustery weather.

He nearly started.

"You are a hasty little creature." Tom smiled evenly at him, and he did not return it. "Feeling jumpy?"

Harry felt a warm hand on his clothed arm but the contact withdrew almost immediately, leaving him disappointed at the absence of the warmth.

"You are freezing over," Tom appraised, caressing his hand as if restoring the heat. "You feel like a hoarfrost statue, honestly." He frowned in displeasure as if it was the fault of Harry and he was accountable.

"Thanks to the _generous_ Dark Lord," Harry said bitterly. "He prioritises the expensive, light fabric more than the more impending possibility of me getting hyperthermia and dying from the cold. Bit dramatic, I know, but catching a bad temper is inevitable when –"

_"Tepidus,"_ Tom said lazily, with a flick of the wand. "Really, I am starting to question your initiative. Harry, you should have thought of this before."

Harry stared at the older Slytherin, unsure of his actions. "Are you actually trying to help me escape the prospect of becoming the abominable snowman or are you wagging a conducting baton at an invisible orchestra?"

Tom aimed a glare at him. "You mean you feel no difference? _Aestus."_

"Nothing…" Harry said.

"It looks like you _do_ have the Dark Lord to thank for his protective charms," Tom said, sarcastically. "They are so resilient that not only do they defend you from unsophisticated harmful hexes but also from warming spells."

Harry growled under his breath in annoyance. "That is so typical of him."

The older Slytherin looked like he was about to say something when they were interrupted by a cloaked Death Eater moving stealthily towards them.

A lock of blond hair was whipping in the wind, blown out from under the black hood.

"Lucius Malfoy," Harry greeted politely, recognising the man.

"Mister Potter…"

"You should get ready," Tom Riddle instructed Lucius, "to curse Dumbledore in case he refuses to return your son."

"Of course." Malfoy dipped his head. "I just wanted to say, Potter, that if you can really get Draco out of there…" he nodded in the direction of Hogwarts. "Our family would truly be in your debt."

"There is no need to thank me." Harry smiled, awkwardly. "I don't like to see Dumbledore toying with children… No one deserves to be separated from their parents…"

"I heard, from the rumours, that this plan was entirely your idea," Malfoy continued. "And, you know, the rumours drifting around often are true… It _is_ a bit of clever thinking on your part, Potter; I will make sure not to underestimate you in the future."

Harry guessed that this was Malfoy's subtle way of complimenting him and apologising for belittling him in the dungeons while still maintaining his pride.

"I'll be happy to see you reunited with Draco," he said simply.

"As am I," Lucius laughed heartily. Harry was pleasantly surprised that it was genuine laughter, unspoiled by pretence. "Five years is a long time… Narcissa will be so pleased when I bring him home to her."

"Good," Harry murmured. "I wouldn't want my efforts to be for nothing."

"If you can think of anyway I can repay you, tell me now," Malfoy said. "Our family owns unlimited wealth and jewellery. We even have a couple pieces of inheritance passed down through the generations, some of which you can buy an entire Diagon Alley with."

"I do not want anything –" Harry abruptly halted, wondering if it was sensible to dismiss help that he later might require. "I do not need anything at the moment; the Dark Lord has been indulging me with the necessities," he amended. "However, I may call for your assistance in the future, if the offer lasts that long."  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Tom flash him a tiny smirk of approval.

"My offer is on forever," Malfoy answered. "We are not an ungrateful bunch, Mister Potter, and we value family honour above all else."

It was the exact thing he would expect to come out of the mouth of a Malfoy. "Then you have my appreciation."

Malfoy inclined his head again and stepped back into the line.

"Wow," Harry muttered, "I did not see that one coming."

"I did," Tom said contentedly. "Lucius Malfoy is swollen with pride; he could not forgive himself if he did not extend a lavish favour to show his superiority."

"It is low of you to use his pride," Harry said reprovingly.

"It isn't," Tom said. "He thought you would accept – you would be insulting him if you declined… Not to mention that you should never look a gift horse in the mouth. Who knows when his worldly goods could come in use?"

Harry exhaled noisily. "Tell me, Tom, why did I ever choose to tolerate you? You are a cunning Slytherin through and through – and I don't mean it as praise."

"Don't get too hypocritical, Harry. You're a Slytherin too." Tom grinned, exposing sharp teeth. "And I'll take it as a compliment, all the same."

"Professor McGonagall!"

A teenage girl, wand in hand and thick brown hair streaming behind her, darted hastily, heading for McGonagall and ended up almost colliding headfirst with the Gryffindor Head.

McGonagall frowned in dissatisfaction as she neatly sidestepped, narrowing avoiding a potential disaster of knocked heads and sprained ankles. "Miss Granger," she reprimanded, "I realise all this is proving to be very exciting but –"

"Professor, the Death Eaters have launched an attack on Hogsmeade," the girl panted, short of breath but still trying to get the words out as quickly as she could.

"I got caught in the crossfire, but one of _his_ followers traded a few spells with me and told me to tell Professor Dumbledore that they have a couple of children held hostage." Hermione took a deep breath. "He said that if Dumbledore confronts them, then theattackonHogsmeadewouldbestopped."

Hermione rattled on, spewing the sentences out so rapidly that soon, McGonagall found her head spinning while she made a brave attempt to understand.  
She could sense that Draco, who had followed her from her office, was also confused.

"But the attack has already stopped," McGonagall said. "The Death Eaters are here."

"They're here? As in here, in the castle?" Hermione blanched, losing what remained of the colour in her face.

"No, Miss Granger, not _in_ the castle. They are outside."

A look of relief passed over the alarmed expression. "Is there any chance the castle can be invaded? They are not a threat, are they?"

"Not a threat to us, but they have to be dealt with."

"Oh, okay."

It was only then that McGonagall noticed that her student was shaking like there was no tomorrow, trembling harder than a leaf caught in a tornado.

"You say you traded a few spells with a Death Eater… He did not torture you, did he? Your body is displaying signs of Cruciatus aftereffects." She was concerned, to say the least.

"That can't be possible," Hermione reassured confidently. "I don't remember having any Cruciatus Curses touch me."

"… If you are sure, Miss Granger, that you do not need to see the mediwitch, I will be going to see the headmaster with Mr Malfoy."

McGonagall was unconvinced, but there was no time to argue with the stubborn girl; they had only twenty minutes left before the Death Eaters left.

She seized Draco by the arm and dragged him towards the Great Hall where she was certain that Dumbledore would be trying to put things right.

The Great Hall was not a huge distance away but when McGonagall arrived, she saw, to her fury, Dumbledore sitting with a brooding appearance opposite Grindelwald who looked equally as brooding.

All thoughts of empathising with her boss vanished with a _poof!_ And she failed to believe there were any reasons for the old man to be taking a pew while the safety of numerous innocent children was dangling in the air.

She also failed to control her anger at the fact that Dumbledore, despite all his cleverness and good intentions, was discussing such an important matter with Grindelwald.

As they all knew, Grindelwald was a 'retired' dark wizard who had been notorious for the sick endings of many decent families, Muggle and magical alike.

It was crystal clear to McGonagall that Grindelwald would not be putting the children first.

The Dumbledore she had respected all those years ago was gone, and this new Dumbledore was ever so alien to her. He was almost a stranger.

Everyone who was close to Minerva knew that she was unusually courteous with people she did not know very well; she was polite and distant as a habit until she came to know the person better.

However, on this day, Minerva McGonagall abandoned her habits and stormed towards Dumbledore, face taut with irritation and shoulders rigid.

Civil or not, she was about to get her way as far as she was concerned.

The old headmaster looked up at her, the edges of his eyes wrinkled in surprise at the sudden disturbance. "Ah, Minerva," he greeted pleasantly. "Glad you've come to join us, me and Gellert, in our discussion."

McGonagall inhaled deeply; she had never grown used to the way Dumbledore referred to Grindelwald by his first name.

"Maybe you can contribute some ideas."

"I will." She stood straight, fixed as a plank of wood. "But first, Albus, why don't you tell me what _you_ want to do?"

"I haven't decided yet." Dumbledore smiled genially, in the way that McGonagall had grown to be wary of. "Although, as you would have guessed already, my first choice certainly would not be complying with Lord Voldemort."

McGonagall sensed the boy stiffening beside her and, uncharacteristically, she squeezed his hand in reassurance. "I don't see why you shouldn't comply."

Dumbledore cast a glance at Draco, nearly with suspicion, and the Head of Gryffindor felt another rush of indignation.

"Well, we mustn't only think of the Order children suffering at the hands of Voldemort, Minerva," he said gently. "That wouldn't be fair at all. We must also take the Death Eater children into account; we must protect them."

"You-Know-Who would not harm the offspring of his own followers."

"You do not know that…"

"I know that if you do not act, you would practically be condemning a bunch of teenagers to death!"

"You do not know that either."

Her nostrils flared. "Albus," she said, collecting herself, "I know that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is more likely to harm _our_ children than _his_ children."

"It wouldn't be right." Dumbledore was fidgeting with his thumbs. "We cannot just walk out on people like Draco and desert them to the corruption of the Dark Lord…"

Minerva folded her arms unyieldingly across her chest.

Dumbledore had an annoying manner of twisting her words and making _her_ seem like the villain, when in reality, she was only being reasonable. The old Dumbledore did not do that, at least not in her memories.

"I will be truthful with you, Albus," McGonagall said, "I do not agree with the fact that you keep Draco here, away from his parents. Even if it _is_ away from corruption, do you think he's happy? Do you think _you_ would be happy if you were in _his_ shoes?"

"I really am sorry for the suffering I have caused but it is necessary."

There was a steely tone underlying the words that contrasted sharply with the soft voice which it was uttered with.

"I know that You-Know-Who is cruel for keeping the Order children behind bars and in cages…" McGonagall said. "But don't you think you are doing the same here, Albus, only in a different way? If you ask Mr Malfoy, he will tell you he feels like he's been in prison for five years."

The old headmaster turned to Draco. "Is this true?"

The teen nodded guardedly.

"I'm sorry... Mr Malfoy for the trouble I've caused you…"

For a moment, Dumbledore slumped in his seat, drained of energy and fatigued with the events swirling around him like muddy water.

His expression was tight with pain and more jaded than McGonagall had ever seen. The blue eyes were void of their twinkle and the lips were dry and cracked.

McGonagall felt a twinge of guilt and pity.

Perhaps she had been too hard on him. It never had been her place, really, to scold the headmaster for the mistakes he had made.

"Albus…I want to apologise… I understand you haven't ever seen your actions resulting in anything like I described. I know you mean well and you want to please everyone –"

"I'm in the wrong, Minerva," he sighed. "I've been blind. I can never create the ideal world where you are all safe from the Dark Lord… Oh, I've tried, I really have but things seem to be against me. They do not work out."

Her heart constricted terribly with each word that dropped from Dumbledore's lips. It was entirely her fault, she knew; she should not have accused him of unwittingly bringing Draco sorrow.

She should not have compared Dumbledore to Voldemort. She should not have blamed him for taking happiness away from Draco. She was tempted to console the man and leave him alone but…

She hardened her heart and stilled her emotions. She could not forget the real reason she had come in the first place.

"It isn't the end of the world, Albus," she said soothingly. "There, we have the perfect solution. Return Draco to his father and make He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named give the children back to you. Think, Mr and Mrs Weasley will be thrilled!"

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Perhaps you are right, Minerva…"

"I know I am."

"All right," he said decisively. "Ready the children we have to give back and tell them they will be going home."

A smile blossomed over McGonagall's stiff features. "It is for the best, Albus," she said. Then, she guided Draco with her out of the Great Hall. "Everything will work out."

When Grindelwald was sure the House Head was out of hearing range, he turned to Dumbledore. "She is getting out of hand," he said blatantly.

Grimly, Dumbledore nodded, and he discarded his tired posture and straightened. "I know."

"Are you planning on doing something about it?" Grindelwald questioned.

"No… at least not yet."

"You could have tried to argue with her… she was softening like a squashed tomato," the retired dark lord said.

"It would have been pointless," Dumbledore stated. "I have no other options. If I do not give up the bargaining chip, I can be accused of being callous; you heard Minerva. Even she was judging me. Sacrifices must be made, Gellert, in order to win in the long run."

Within the front gates of the manor, on the territory of Lord Voldemort, rare gestures of affection were being made by those followers who were beside themselves with joy, and entirely uncaring of the picture they made.

Harry stood on the side-lines with Tom, unable to fight of the smile that curled his lips. His mission had been a success, and he relished not only in the triumph of accomplishment but also the reunions of parents and children.

If he closed his eyes for a moment and listened only to the cries of ecstasy, he could almost forget that they were Death Eaters who were fully capable of being vicious.

He did just that, concentrating on the love and warmth of the moment.

"Happy?" Tom whispered into his ear.

He grinned. "More than ever."

"Are you still regretful we joined the Dark Lord?"

Harry hesitated. "Are you expecting me to give a positive answer?"

"Of course," Tom responded smoothly.

He gave the older Slytherin a playful shove that was hard enough to make the other stumble. "Do not push your luck," he said, wagging a finger.

Tom snorted in amusement. "The Dark Lord will be grateful toward you, you know…" he said. "He said he would hold you entirely answerable for whatever happens. If I am correct, it usually means he will punish you if you fail and shower you with rewards if you do well."

"Then I suppose I should count my lucky stars that I succeeded."

"So should I," Tom said.

"Why?"

"Otherwise I might have to tolerate you snivelling on my shoulder after whatever the Dark Lord disciplines you," Tom said matter-of-factly. "Or worse, I'd have to rescue you from your fate as I always do –"

Harry had stopped listening when Draco Malfoy himself made his way uncomfortably over to him. He had nearly forgotten what the boy looked like – and now, it seemed that in the time that had passed, Draco had grown to take on more of his father's features.

"Potter," Draco acknowledged, his hands tucked in his robe pockets. "Thanks for… you know."

"You're welcome," Harry said. "So, did the old codger fight to keep you?"

Draco looked mildly surprised at the title Harry used on Dumbledore. "He did," he said, "but McGonagall would have none of it. She took no nonsense."

"Just like how I remember her," Harry agreed.

"And… Potter… I didn't thank you because my parents told me to." Malfoy Junior flushed in embarrassment. "I mean, they did tell me to, but _I_ also wanted to. You really have changed… in a good way."

"I can say the same about you."

"I must applaud you on your work." Voldemort tilted a wine glass at Harry, as if he was drinking to him.

"Thank you."

"According to Tom, you were quite the brilliant crowd manipulator, dazing them with the power of a fluent and persuasive speech." The Dark Lord twitched his lips into a smile full of teeth. "To your eloquent silver tongue!" He downed the glass.

"You are too kind."

"Harry, you led them to victory," Voldemort reminded. "How can I not be kind?"

"It wasn't all me," he said. "Tom was –"

"Ever the modest, Harry."

"I am not modest, I am honest –"

In the corner, Tom Riddle brought up a hand and stifled a scoff. Both Harry and the Dark Lord twisted around to stare at the Slytherin Heir.

"Yes, Harry, you were _very_ honest," Tom claimed mockingly. "_'Our leader, the Dark Lord, is losing sleep over the welfare of the sons and daughters of his supporters… and has come to the decision that if Dumbledore will not go to him, he will take the first step forward,'_ you said. I do wonder how you came to the conclusion that Lord Voldemort is losing sleep; perhaps you _watch_ him go to bed each night?"

Harry reddened to the teasing comment as the Dark Lord chuckled. "Stop, Tom, you are making him blush."

"I swear, you'll badger me to death one day," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Voldemort said, with feigned formality, "you are hereby arrested for the attempted murder of Harry Potter with your mouth as the murder weapon."

Harry flushed with mortification and swiftly switched the subject. "My Lord, do I get rewarded a golden trophy for my execution of the task?"

"Ah, Harry, you may choose your reward yourself… as long as it is not too unreasonable."

He had been expecting the question ever since Tom had told him about a prize – and he knew exactly what he wanted.

"I would like some more freedom, my Lord," Harry said casually. "Maybe occasional wanders through Diagon Alley alone or perhaps one or two days out of a week when I have permission to go wherever I like."

The Dark Lord frowned reluctantly, obviously in two minds on whether to grant the request. His brows knitted in concentration as he rolled the issue in his head; he had his own reservations about giving the boy too much control and… of course, there was also his safety to consider.

Finally, Voldemort turned Harry down apologetically. "It is too dangerous," he said. "One day, one day when you are older, you may get the privilege… but for now, you must stay."

Harry suppressed his frustration. He had a back-up idea.

"Then, my Lord, you must teach me how to fly."

The Dark Lord was caught by surprise. "Fly with a broom?"

"You can fly without support, without the assistance of a broom, thus defying the law of magic that states only objects can fly through the use of a flying charm," Harry said.

"That is true…"

"The wizarding world is floored by the fact – but you have always kept the ability for yourself." He deliberately added a sprinkle of reproach to his voice. "In view of the fact you now call me your apprentice, would you teach me if I asked you to?"

"…Of course…" Lord Voldemort sounded sorely disappointed that Harry had not asked for a second bedroom or a luxurious pet or even the latest –and most expensive – broomstick. Harry guessed that the Dark Lord had always been fond of keeping priceless powers to himself.

"Thank you," Harry chirped lightly. He got up and bowed. "If you will pardon me, my Lord, I feel like taking a nap." He swept out of the room.

As the door closed, Voldemort turned to Tom. "The boy never fails to stun me."

Tom smirked. "He is one of a kind."

* * *

**45 reviews = delighted authoress = faster update**

**Below 40 reviews = still extremely grateful authoress**


	23. Feisty Festivity

**Disclaimer: I'd lie and say I own Harry Potter - but my name, sadly, is not Joanne.**

**Yippeeee! Yehehe! I could kiss you all! This is unbelievable - 57 reviews? Thank you, thank you, thank you! Each time I submit a chapter, I sit and do some stuff and my eyes flicker hopefully to my email to see if I get any reviews. Trust me, they illuminate my world. Can I ask for 45 reviews again? Pretty please with chocolate cherries on top? **

**I apologise for the rubbish writing last chapter... and I'd love to make up since you guys are simply gorgeous... but I have a really bad feeling that this chapter is just as bad... **

**Give me a moment while I go and hide. **

* * *

The guests sat in their prearranged seating, anticipating the arrival of the Dark Lord. The settling darkness was only lifted marginally by the crystal chandelier suspended high above the white-clothed tables, and the ignited candles espousing flames.

Sitting in the front rows were men and women who kept sneaking delighted looks at their children, looking as if they were over the moon that the teenagers were there at all.

Amongst them perched Narcissa Malfoy, her husband, and her son. She fought hard to restrain the wild grin that threatened to decorate her cold, prim face with the appearance of a witless moron.

Good Lord, even her soft hands trembled… And she was sure it was not from the chill in the air nearly as much as her excitement at the reunion of their family; she had not felt whole ever since Draco had been taken.

Her son had been absent for five winters and she had not taken pleasure in any of them, which was almost impossible considering the gigantic balls and handsome feasts that the Malfoy family threw by tradition on Christmas Eve.

She had actually started making wishes at Christmas, though it was common knowledge that only _children_ practised such hobbies, and _she_ was a grown woman, far too old to be begging the ghost of Merlin for a miracle.

An odd little thing she had discovered was that young Muggle children, like magical children, also made long lists and letters of things they wanted…

But unlike magical kids, they posted their requests to a fat, long-bearded, bumbling ancient man who surrounded himself with elves and lived in the South Pole… or was it the North…?

Apparently, they called him Santa or Father Christmas. Narcissa had turned her nose up at the name; it sounded too much like a popular Muggle soft drink she had heard of… Fanta…

To be honest, she had always pictured Santa as someone who looked a lot like Albus Dumbledore.

Narcissa often found the fact that she shared a mutual interest with Muggle children distasteful but Draco was currently sitting next to her, very much alive.

She thanked Merlin for that, although she knew it truly was Potter whom she owed her gratitude to – he had been the one to fulfil her wish.

As she now stared at Draco, she was sorely tempted to pull his head towards her and plant a gentle kiss on it for good measure.

Naturally, it could be considered inappropriate behaviour in such a setting, especially since the Dark Lord put down strict rules on what was fitting and what was not. Obviously, he had never stated kissing and hugging and grappling at treasurable, long-lost sons was forbidden, but Narcissa was quite sure that it was only because no one had ever done it.

There was a first time for everything…  
But Narcissa would not risk being the first; she had her own reputation to maintain not to mention that Draco most likely, if he was anything like his father, would recoil with embarrassment and the lipstick carefully applied to her lips would smear horribly.

In another life, if she happened to be a braver woman, she might have done it… but at this moment, she merely contented herself with an inward smile and settled down to wait for the arrival of the Dark Lord while listening to the enthusiastic chatter of grateful parents to their spawns.

**...**

He, Harry, had not forgotten the piece of advice Tom had given him about dressing to impress; he was aware that the celebration and banquet the Dark Lord had arranged was a perfect chance to score some points with prominent followers.

It was just an additional advantage that the Death Eaters would be feeling rather generous towards him for saving the hide of their broods, of course.

An hour before, he had pulled the doors to his wardrobe back and was greeted to a little room armed with flowing fabric weaponry; silk, cotton, satin, lace, furs. His head spun at the variety of colours: crimson, green, grey, gold, silver, black, blue, purple… and practically every other tint known to mankind.

He had selected carefully, heeding Tom's advice, and when he finally finished, he was donning robes that were of a very dark shade of green, that brought out his eyes, with slender black snakes embellishing the rims. It was safer to go with the dark shades, seeing as the Death Eaters were biased towards _anything_ light.

Now, he accompanied Lord Voldemort as he glided to the front of the hall.

Applause broke out amidst the audience.

Though he carried himself with cool composure, casting an aura of supremacy into the atmosphere, Harry was cautious of his own movements. The Death Eaters had not seen his face yet – but when they did, he knew there would be an outrage.

After all, he was the traitor.

Many of them were grateful, but there was twice as many who hated his very name with a vengeance; Bellatrix Lestrange and Daphne Greengrass were both classic examples.

Harry stood in the darkness as the Dark Lord began addressing his followers, "Our recent triumph and recovery of our children calls for a celebration… So here you all are," he said.

Cheers and cries of approval followed.

"As all of you should agree, it was an admirable plan that cornered Dumbledore –" there were hisses professed at the name, "– and returned our children to us. The man, the _old_ man, had no other options but to comply. I admit, this step should have been taken earlier, but I was busy and no one managed to come up with the idea."

The Dark Lord radiated power. "I wish we could have kept the Order children as future bargaining chips…" he feigned a sigh. "But alas, _our_ children are more important."

Harry barely stirred, patiently waiting for the dark wizard to introduce him… It was a safety precaution to ward off potential attacks. He didn't like to think what would happen if he simply popped up in the audience and said, 'Hey, guys, remember me?"

"In the next weeks, the children will be trained and tested and brought up to scratch on their duelling skills," Voldemort continued. "Parents are to report to me on their progress and ensure their sons and daughters are back on track for their education."

More claps.

"It is truly an immense pleasure for me, as your leader, to see families fixed and whole."

Inwardly, Harry rolled his eyes at the words. Lord Voldemort never attempted to portray himself as a white saint but he did not sneer at chances to make himself seem merciful either.

"On a more serious note, I realise a few of you are beginning to doubt my abilities and fear my downfall is approaching." The Dark Lord's jaw tightened fractionally in anger. "I can assure you that I am at the height of my powers… but Dumbledore is faltering. He is, after all, growing old as we speak."

Harry glanced up in interest. Followers were sceptical of their lord? That was definitely fascinating… He had never heard of such a thing until this instant.

"However, the long fight over wizarding Britain is beginning to bore me and I may not have a chance to personally bat him down…" The wizard flashed a honeyed smile. "Therefore, I have introduced two new players to the game."

How melodramatic… Voldemort had always had a dramatic flair.

"Over the years, I have come to the realisation that if I am to pass my knowledge on, one apprentice would simply not be enough…"

In the audience, Daphne had let out a small gasp and leant forward, her knuckles whitening as she clutched on the seat in front of her. She was trembling from head to toe like a leaf, losing her composure.

A lady, surely a relative, drew Greengrass close to her in a comforting gesture and said something that Harry could not hear.

Harry felt almost sorry for her – 'almost' being the keyword. Voldemort had casually mentioned something about restoring his apprentice title but until this moment Daphne had probably not thought he was _seriously_ going to.

"… Allow me to familiarise you with my new apprentice."

He knew it was his cue to step into the light, but he hesitated for the fraction of a second before obeying to brace himself for the explosion.

Stunning emerald irises, a dignified stance, rosy lips and a wand pinned neatly under his sleeve for easy access.

The silence was unnerving. Several jaws dropped and all but hit the floor. Eyes bulged and ogled at him, digging holes into Harry; the Death Eaters were glued to the spot like rubbernecked ducks. He gingerly took a step forward… _slowly_ as so not to startle the minions who seemed like bombs waiting to go off at the slightest movement.

Harry raised both hands in a peaceful gesture, inwardly feeling ridiculous.

"That's the traitor!" someone yelled at the top of their voices.

And then… chaos broke out. The angry outburst Harry had held his breath for did not disappoint. Wands were drawn and curses fired on instinct. Abruptly, the Great Hall had transformed into a battle ground where Harry was the opposition.

A bombardment of spells streamed towards him, and Harry ducked, not liking the consequence of any of them.

He avoided most – but a few brushed his hair.

Instantly, his own wand was gripped forcefully in his hand and a shield sprung up around him. Smashes and clatters ensued.

There was a startled exclamation of pain and Harry smirked, guessing one of the spells had buried itself into the wrong target.

"He is under my protection!" the Dark Lord roared, the order sharp enough to deter any more onslaughts on Harry. "Lower your wands; I will only say this once."

Uncertainty was in the air, but every single person tucked their wands away, eyes flickering bewilderedly from the teenage boy to their master and back again.

"My Lord," a man that Harry recognised as Barty Crouch protested, "that impudent whelp there is Harry Potter. He betrayed you."

"Since I am hardly blind, though you may believe otherwise, I can _see_ that the person in front of me is Potter," the Dark Lord said, softly. "Impudent whelp he may be, but he is still my apprentice and I must ask you to refrain from harming him."

"But, my Lord…!" Barty's sallow skin had turned into the colour of a swollen, bruised fruit. "He betrayed you! He's become Dumbledore's little pet…!"

"He _has_ betrayed me, so you've said before, but Barty, we mustn't make accusations that are not true," Voldemort warned. "I assure you, he is anything but Dumbledore's tamed poodle. Quite on the contrary, he may become the old man's worst nightmare."

Crouch looked like he was full to bursting, unable to accept that the words were his master's. "Have you been…?" His voice lowered significantly on the last part, and he muttered it under his breath.

"Pardon?" Lord Voldemort inquired politely, voice dripping with sweet poison. "Finish your sentence; share your thoughts with us."

Harry wondered what Barty had done; he made Voldemort sound positively dangerous

"No-nothing, my Lord," Crouch stuttered tensely. "I did not say anything." His voice quivered like his bottom lip.

He looked disgustingly pathetic.

"Oh?" The Dark Lord gave a predatory smile. "You seem to have forgotten your own thoughts – but no matter, _I_ can still remember and _I_ can voice them for you. You meant to ask me if I had been imperiused by Harry Potter."

Ah yes, Harry had forgotten the wonders of Legilimency.

"No, no, no, my Lord!" Crouch shook his head repetitively.

_"Yes, yes, yes." _A cruel mimic of Crouch.

"Are you suggesting that I am under the total control of Potter and may be directed to do anything he wishes?" He traced his lips with his tongue delicately.

Crouch appeared resigned and he permitted his lies to fall. "Forgive me, my Lord, it is just that Potter wrecked everything for you… It is not my place to say anything but –"

"There it goes again, your misgiving in my decision and your suspicion that my power is not as great as before. Do you want a taste of it? My magic is quite tantalizing, I promise, although the Cruciatus may leave a rather acrid aftertaste…"

"Please, my Lord, no!" He was on his knees, crawling towards the Dark Lord, sniffing out his apologies. "I was discourteous, I was vulgar… but please don't…"

"Please don't what?" Voldemort smirked like the Cheshire cat, revealing sharp teeth. Harry shivered; it was the sort of smile a shark gave a small fish just before it devoured it. "Please don't give you the punishment you deserve?"

He brandished his yew wand and pointed it at Crouch. "Cruci –"

Harry stepped in front of it, between the Dark Lord and the whimpering Crouch. "My Lord," he said smoothly, "he may deserve punishment but he does not deserve your attention – and especially not when we are all in a festive mood."

The crowd watched the drama unfold with bated breath, viewing the exchange between master and apprentice with ill-disguised awe.

"Give me one reason, Harry, why I should not curse him."

"Because he is not worthy."

"Unworthy of what?"

"Unworthy of ruining our party and turning it into a Disobedient Death Eater Discipline Session."

Lord Voldemort's lips twitched and the ghost of a genuine smile slipped by, one that was only meant for Harry. He let his hand fall to his side. "This is not a party, Harry," he murmured, "but I shall respect your wishes."

"Thank you, my Lord, for your mercy!"

The Dark Lord pierced Crouch with a withering look of scorn. "Do not thank you, thank the boy you called traitor."

Crouch turned to Harry. "Thank you," he uttered.

Harry was pleased to find real gratitude in his expression. He had expected nothing less from a follower like Barty Crouch; it was the only reason he had bothered to step in… That and what he told Voldemort.

"Last but not least, before the feast begins, I would like to present Tom Riddle."

From the audience, as elegant as ever, Tom arose to his feet and strode to join Harry and Voldemort. There were mutters in the crowd about 'Mudblood last name', which darkened both Tom's and Voldemort's features.

Harry understood why the Dark Lord had taken offense; 'Riddle' had once been his 'Mudblood last name'.

"You are required to treat him with the same amount of respect you regard me," Voldemort commanded. "Report to me if you feel there is anything amiss or suspicious with his behaviour. Otherwise, you will obey his instructions unquestioningly."

"My Lord, with all due respect, is this… Tom Riddle a Mudblood vermin?" Avery, a poor fool who was looking as though he was destined to be the next Crouch, demanded.

Tom's eyes glistened sharply and his mouth twisted into a sneer. "Are you hinting that your lord is such a hypocrite as to invite a Mudblood, the very thing his cause stands against, to be his companion?" Icily, he added as an afterthought, "If so, you should consider why your lord would prefer the presence of filth to your companionship."

Avery's face soured as if he had sucked on a particularly unpleasant lemon.

"He is a Half-Blood," the Dark Lord said, dismissively. "Now, my loyal supporters, for my part I believe it is time for us to begin rejoicing. If any of you wish to communicate with either Mr Riddle or Mr Potter face to face, I urge you to do so."

With that, the merriment began.

Before Harry even took one step towards the food table, which he had his eye fixed on, he was pulled away by the Dark Lord who stared strictly at him.

"What?"

"Do not spend all your time eating," Voldemort chided. "I have not provided you with this excellent opportunity for you to waste it. Go out there and mingle; invite a pretty Pureblood girl to dance or associate yourself with the Malfoys or anything else… Just be social."

"Okay, okay!" Harry hissed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I was going to do exactly that when you –"

"Oh, and one more thing, Harry, you may get your flying lessons from me starting by tomorrow but only on one condition."

Harry gaped at him. "I thought it was supposed to be my reward," he said accusingly. "For bringing the children home, you know."

"Surely you do not expect me to make it _that_ easy for you, Harry," he teased. "I require a chance to see the level of your magic for myself."

Harry sighed in relief. "Merlin, I thought you were going to ask me to do something horrible. Sure, I can show you tomorrow if you like."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"You will be duelling with Daphne tonight," Voldemort said, with a wicked grin. "Every Death Eater present will be playing witness. And you better hope you win, because if you lose you will become seemingly easy prey for my followers... and they are out for your blood already."

"I can deal with them."

"Of course you can, Harry. They are not the greatest threat but they can be a great irritation. I assume you do not want frequent hexes cast your way twenty four hours a day, and three hundred and sixty five days a year."

Harry scowled. "You are a killjoy."

"Aside from that, I will only teach you how to fly if you win. If you lose, you will be working hard with Severus to perfect your duelling tactics."

Harry scowled even harder.

"Run along, Harry, and be a good boy."

He was tempted to throw a jinx at Voldemort's retreating back. Fortunately, he spotted Narcissa Malfoy and her son before he could do anything stupid. He decided to approach them.

**...**

"Mrs Malfoy," he said, voice sugared, "it is a _pleasure_ to see you here tonight. I trust everything is well?"

The Malfoy matriarch simpered. "Ah, Mr Potter, it is _my_ privilege to greet _you._ Everything is proceeding most splendidly." She made a motherly picture as she stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder to Draco. Harry noted that her heir was marginally taller than her, now.

In the past, he had only met her once or twice, and she had made an extraordinarily bad impression on him. He could remember her angling her face until she was staring down her nose at him like he was a nasty smell.

Of course, none of it mattered now.

There were no eternal friends or eternal enemies… only eternal interests. And it was in his best interest to get along with Narcissa.

"Good to hear," Harry said, turning to face Draco. "How are you?"

"Simply delightful," Draco drawled. "And you?"

"Equally delightful." He sensed that the sarcasm in Malfoy Junior's response and discerned a sulky grimace of the lips at his mother. Harry made a mental note to check on it later.

"So, Potter, out of curiosity, who is this mysterious 'Tom Riddle'?" Narcissa inquired. "Lucius has mentioned him to me once."

Harry understood only too well that Narcissa was not questioning him 'out of curiosity' and that Malfoy Senior had touched on Tom more than 'once' or even a few times with his wife. If his conclusion was correct, the Malfoy family was feeling threatened by the 'new recruit'.

"Tom is… intelligent… to say the least," Harry answered carefully. "I imagine he is like any other new recruit, you know, keen on impressing the Dark Lord…"

"Well," Narcissa commented lightly, "he has certainly succeeded. I hear rumours that say he is the newfound favoured of our lord." Her eyes skimmed the crowd and landed on a tall, lean figure whose posture stood out like a beacon: Tom.

"Er, I wouldn't put it like that," Harry said awkwardly. He was correct in his conclusion. "Tom has his fair share of amazing talents but the Dark Lord thinks his arrogance and ambition is a bit of a handful. You know, Tom's probably just a quick investment for the Dark Lord."  
He was lying through his teeth.

"The boy is certainly –", 'Man,' Harry corrected automatically in his mind, "– handsome. If he is as clever as you say, then he is armed with everything to walk the path of victory. Handsome, intelligent, charming, and with a healthy dose of ambition –"

A hand tapped Narcissa neatly on the shoulder, startling her.

"Ma'am, Lady Malfoy, if I may borrow Harry for a while…?" A velvety voice and soft tone alerted Harry that Tom, somehow, had snuck up on them.

"Ah!" Narcissa gasped, flushing. "Mr Potter and I were just talking about you."

"Oh? I did not catch a single word." Tom feigned a disappointed expression that screamed 'fake' at Harry, but it seemed to be enough to deceive the Pureblood woman.

"Such a pity, I was telling him how you singlehandedly stole all the desirable qualities in mankind: charisma, wit, looks…" Narcissa appeared to have composed herself now that she was sure Riddle was not aware of her conversation.

"Please, Mrs Malfoy, do not make his head bigger than it already is," Harry said humorously.

Narcissa allowed herself a bell-like laugh. "Mr Riddle requires you, Mr Potter. Why don't you see what he wants?"

"Naturally," he replied, permitting Tom to steer him away in the other direction. As they walked, Harry gave the Slytherin Heir a reproachful glare. "How long have you been eavesdropping on us?"

"Why would you come to that supposition, Harry?"

"Do me some credit, Tom, I know you better than I like to. Just answer the question."

"Fine," Tom said. "I heard your entire discussion and came to stop you before you say something daft to that woman. She is fond of asking meddlesome things, doesn't she? Prying nosy parker."

"Not as nosy as you," Harry muttered. "Don't you know it's rude to spy on people?"

"Not if they make up for it by offering you a night of entertainment," Tom disagreed.

Harry folded his arms. "And how exactly are you planning on doing that?"

The Slytherin Heir gave him a malicious smirk. "In all probability you have not yet realised that Daphne Greengrass, the princess, has become foolishly infatuated with me. It's a mistake on her part but it can give _us_ endless amusement."

"That's an exaggeration," Harry deadpanned. "It is a crush, at the most."

"Oh, so you _have_ noticed," Tom said. "All the better."

"Uh huh. What do you plan on doing?"

"You do not seem to have an attachment for her and she has even less for you; there is no love lost between the two of you," Tom said. "I find her attempts at flirtation and seducing me absolutely priceless."

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry admitted. "It is ridiculously obvious."

"I can lure her to a dance; and you can take her younger sister," Tom nodded towards a girl who came across as a miniature clone of Daphne. "Stay close to me and you will pick up everything she says. It will be hysterical."

"What is the point?"

"The point?" Tom gave a sarcastic laugh. "I am bored to tears by the Dark Lord's _exceptional_ festivity and I need a diversion. Not to mention, I think you will appreciate my allure when it is used to mock your nemesis."

Sighing, Harry indicated his compliance. "All right, you may as well enrapture her to the point where she will still be lovesick for you while duelling me. It will be more painless for me if she is in a daze and I take her out earlier."

"You are going to duel with her?"

"Yep, Voldemort's bloody idea."

"Leave it up to me." Tom manoeuvred Harry in the direction of the two Greengrass sisters. "I am a master of manipulation."

* * *

**You are all brilliant readers, truly... I hope you'll forgive me for such horrible work and give me some suggestions as to what I can write next.**

**I'm currently considering what two of my readers said about writing a piece on Voldemort playing chess with Harry.**

**So if you have any ideas, don't hesitate to tell me! :)**


	24. Dancing Queen, Duelling King

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**God, I want to thank you ****_so_**** much! Fifty three reviews is really great! I'm just sorry that I did not update as quickly as I did in the last days, and I'm even sorrier to have to say that because the school holiday is ending, I will have to go back to updating, like, once every one or two weeks.**

**Just as a reply to Runaway Sun, I really am grateful for your generous comments. I probably will be going back to my other stories, but Dawn Crux is my top priority. I think I'll be updating the others faster when Dawn Crux is finished. :)**

**Chapter Challenge: 45 reviews! ;) I'm ever grateful that I have you guys to tell me how I'm doing. **

**On another note, I think this fic will mostly be gen. I haven't decided yet whether to add a ****_tiny_**** sprinkle of Harry/Astoria.**

**Feel free to proceed. Daphne dueling ahead! **

* * *

Harry had to confess, watching Tom Marvolo Riddle was not the greatest way to cultivate a healthy self-confidence.

The future Dark Lord had a tendency to make others suddenly develop inferiority complexes.

Even with that thought in mind, he could not tear his eyes off the Slytherin Heir as he, with elegance in his step that resembled that of a swan, breezed towards Daphne Greengrass with the look of a young man who was free from all the cares in the world.

From where Harry stood, it appeared as if the very aura of Riddle was overpowering and godlike, if the reactions of Daphne were anything to go by.

She seemed to sense his presence when he was roughly ten metres away. The snap of her neck and the manner in which her eyes gravitated toward Tom like iron shavings to magnet was truly magic, in Harry's humble opinion.

"Miss Greengrass and Miss Greengrass," Tom acknowledged, inclining his head towards both Pureblood sisters, "I trust you are in excellent moods tonight?"

The saccharine lilt in the voice, the radiance in the blue irises, and the tilt of the cerise lips were pulled off impressively.

"Oh!" Daphne exclaimed, letting out an amazed gasp that could simply not have been _more_ fake. "I didn't see you there."

Harry marvelled at Riddle's playacting skills as the older Slytherin merely arched a suggestive brow and smiled. "That is a pity. I was hoping you would notice me determinedly seeking you when there is a hall of delights to savour."

"Stop," she said. "You are making me blush."

"Red goes well with your cheeks."

It was sickening. But remarkable. If Tom Riddle happened to enter the acting industry, he'd first take the world by storm and then put all his competition out of business. He was a wonderful actor.

"Oh, Tom!" Daphne tsked, taking a swipe jokily at the stiff arm. "This is improper talk. Especially in front of my little sister."

Harry stared. Evidently she had no idea who she was dealing with if she dared to touch Tom so casually.

For a fleeting moment, Tom narrowed his eyes at the nerve before resuming as if nothing had happened a moment later. "Excuse me; I am not normally so rude…" He turned to the younger sibling. "To whom do I have the honour of meeting…?"

"Astoria." The answer was brief, curt, and Harry saw the young girl scan Riddle from head to toe, assessing him.

"Enchanté," Tom replied smoothly.

"Good evening."

"I feel ashamed, really, for interrupting this sisterly bonding," he said, voice dripping with feigned regret. "But the music is lovely…"

"Yes, it is," Astoria deadpanned flatly.

Harry could have burst out laughing. Tom looked as though he was suppressing a truly priceless expression at the brusqueness.

Daphne shot her sister a stern stare.

"Yes, indeed it is…" Tom said. "May I have the gratification of a dance from one of you?"

Daphne's reaction was faster than greased lightning.

"Astoria, were you not telling me just a moment ago how you had your eye on the boy over there?" she said, gesturing in a random direction at a blond teen.

Astoria Greengrass, blinking dumbly in incredulity, asked, "Draco Malfoy? He's in my House and I've never lik –"

"Yes, I'm quite certain you have a crush on him," Daphne cut in. "Why don't you go and accompany him to a dance? You know how graceful you are on the dance floor."

"Umm…"

"Okay?"

"Wait, Daphne…"

"Tom and I will be waiting for you two." Daphne waved. "Snatch Mr Malfoy up before someone else does. I'll see you later."

With something that sounded horrifyingly like a nervous giggle to Harry's ears, Daphne allowed Tom to take her delicately by the hand and guide her to the sparkling dance floor where dresses twirled like multi-coloured Japanese fans.

"Look, Tom, I really appreciate this," Daphne said eagerly, her nose oddly close to the Slytherin Heir's pale neck.

Harry grimaced. Absolutely revolting. Perhaps she was sniffing the subtle peppermint fragrance of Tom's preferred aftershave.

_Oooh, smell that minty goodness_, he thought sarcastically.

Either Tom was pretending to be oblivious or he was actually unaware of the distance – or lack thereof. Somehow, Harry doubted it was the latter. Riddle was _too_ observant for his own good, perceptive to every bloody thing around him.

"As do I."

As soon as the slow waltz music came on, Daphne's glowing face split into a blazing smile. She looked happy, from the bottom of her heart.

Tom Riddle also looked happy, but his was a heavy charm, drenched to the skin with sweet falseness and effectively concealed repugnance.

"So," he started, "would you prefer to stick to the open position or are you comfortable enough for the closed?"

"You are the gentleman," Daphne murmured, her chest heaving with delight. "You decide."

"Very well."

Tom rested his hand firmly on her waist and with a small intake of breath, Daphne leant forward and placed her hand on his right shoulder. Their spare hands clasped together.

"I do hope you will not think me bold, but –"

Tom took a graceful step back, in time with the music, and Daphne followed. Her eyes were bright like one of those stars that illuminated the skies at night.

"– you are exceedingly pleasing to the eye."

"Your compliments are too kind."

The melody struck a high chord and Tom spun his partner out, so that her arm snaked around his collar for support.

The platinum blonde curls flew out like golden buds from the refined bun.

_"You_ are kind." Daphne gazed unblinkingly at him, as if fearing the moment would vanish the minute her eyelashes fluttered close.

"Am I?" Tom purred. "I must warn you, Greengrass, I live up to my name… I am not as _kind_ as I seem."

"Mmm…" Daphne threw her head back as she whirled. "Maybe not to _some_ people…"

She spoke confidently; almost like she was assured she would not be included in her statement as 'some people'.

"You seem to have come to a solid conclusion about who I am and what my character happens to be…" Tom noted softly.

Daphne laughed, a silvery laugh. "I would not dare to attempt and unravel the enigma – after all, that would be messing with perfection. I like you just the way you are. As a riddle."

"It's a very strong tribute to pay."

They sped up with the music, moving and weaving like the quickened heartbeats that rammed throbbed agonisingly against Daphne's upper body. "You deserve it." She pirouetted out of Tom's grasp and twisted herself back into the dancer's embrace.

To slip beside the firm chest that belonged to one of the most striking males she had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

"I am having the time of my life," Daphne whispered, her breath tinkling. Her arm entwined abruptly around his.

"Dancing queen," Riddle replied, the ghost of a smile gracing his features.

When Tom had the chance, he glanced over the shoulder of Daphne and his stare resolutely landed on Harry, who was propping against a wall in the shadows, viewing them as though watching a show.

Harry knew Tom was vexed that he had not made his move. It was rather obvious from the scowl and the meaningful glare in the direction of Astoria Greengrass that he expected Harry to go through with what they had previously talked about.

His current predicament was… problematic to say the least.

For one thing, he did not want to invite Daphne's sister.

The truth was… The truth was very embarrassing. Through the years he had lived with Tom, he had soaked up Pureblood etiquette and the Dark Arts like a sponge but he had never learnt how to dance.

Well, of course he knew how to _dance_… he had seen Dudley wriggling his rear end and flapping his chubby hands and lifting his shirt up to display his ugly belly button countless times…  
Dudley had called it 'dancing'.

Although Harry was sure he would be fully capable of doing the same thing, he had a gut feeling that if he started dancing Dudley-style in the middle of the ballroom, Tom would drop dead with humiliation.

As would Voldemort.

_And, you know, they always say it's rude to kill your host._

On the other hand, Astoria, to a certain extent, made a sad picture as she poured herself drink after drink, attention never wandering far from her older sister and the strange boy Daphne seemed to be obsessed with.

Harry had given up on his days of Gryffindor chivalry when he would not hesitate to swoop in and rescue the young lady from her isolation…

Still. She was the depiction of loneliness.

And Tom would murder him if he left the young Dark Lord alone to an evening of boredom and bad company.

Mind made up, Harry clutched at what courage he had and strutted towards the younger Greengrass sister.

"Hello," he said softly, as he closed in. "Astoria, isn't it?"

The girl glanced up. "Who are you?" Then, her eyes flickered in recognition. "Harry. Harry Potter. The Dark Lord's new apprentice. I know you – you were in my year at Hogwarts."

"Yeah, would you like to join me for a dance? I know you 'had your eye' on Malfoy Junior, but maybe –"

"Of course." Astoria jumped up. "I really don't care much for the Malfoy Heir. Took stuck up, you know, and too blond," she said matter-of-factly.

Harry eyed Astoria's blonde hair sceptically. "You also have –"

"I know, _exactly_. He looks like he could be my brother, it sets a weird image, you see. Com'on." She grabbed him by the hand, and pulled him in the direction where Tom was dancing with Daphne like a pair of butterflies.

"Just letting you know, I like the open position better than the closed. Otherwise it gets too unpleasant and sweaty."

Harry flushed. "Alright, but what is it exactly? I don't know ballroom dancing." He expected a gape or an open mouth but the mini-Daphne seemed unperturbed.

"Open position refers to positions in which partners are connected primarily at the hands as opposed to closer body contact, as in closed position."

"Okay…"

"I can lead, if you want. The males normally do that, but seeing as you don't know how to… You can just follow."

"Sure." Harry didn't know what to make of the teen; Astoria was _nothing_ like Daphne. She was too lively for that. Nor did she seem like the daughter of a Pureblood family… Too blunt, too feisty, too innocent.

He watched in amusement as the girl flounced ahead.

**...**

His cheeks were on fire. They had to be. They were radiating heat like a blast furnace.

His hands felt sweaty, and his grip was tight. He was surprised that Astoria Greengrass had not yet made a sardonic comment on perspiration.

It was unnerving. He still felt extraordinarily self-conscious despite knowing that not many people were paying attention to him.

Nevertheless, he could sense the swelling amusement as the Slytherin Heir subtly observed him out of the corner of his eye. Damn Riddle.

"Forgive me," he kept repeating to his partner, "I'm no good at this… Absolutely hopeless… I'm never going to do this again."

"Do not speak like a pessimist, I did not take you for one," Astoria returned, with composure. "There has to be a first time for everything, don't you think? I have a friend, her name's Luna. I have a feeling she'd want me to say that the Nargles are making your head go fuzzy and that you are a perfectly fine dancer."

Harry flushed. "What is a Nargle?"

"Oh, I have no idea," Astoria replied airily. "Luna says they live in mistletoe and are mischievous thieves. Apparently they stole her shoes and socks."

"Astounding."

"It is." Astoria nodded fervently. "But not nearly as astounding as what I've noticed about that _gentleman_ my sister's dancing with. The strong and silent type, right? He looks like a twisted version of Prince Charming."

"I suppose," Harry agreed humorously. "Though he's more of an 'I'm really sorry you have to die' type of person – you know, like, a perfectly delightful guy with psychopathic tendencies."

He had been half joking but the Greengrass sibling seemed to take him a bit too seriously. "I know," she said. "I must be mad or something, but do you ever get the feeling he looks like the Dark Lord?"

"Umm…" Harry was taken aback. _Uh, oh_. "No. No, definitely not, I don't think so."

"I'm not the only person who finds the resemblance creepy; Daphne thinks as I do, and so do a lot of others… except nobody ever voice it out loud."

"Uh…"

"There's a slight possibility that he's, like, a son to the Dark Lord or something," Astoria said secretively. "Why else would he be so favoured?"

"I really dunno, but maybe there's a reason people do not say it aloud. Image the Dark Lord's rage if _he_ catches wind of it."

Harry sighed with relief when Astoria took the hint and fell quiet. Really, the youngest Greengrass daughter was too open for her own good. Perhaps her habits were largely due to that she had all but spent her teenage hood at Hogwarts, away from her Pureblood family.

"Of course, there's always the probability that Riddle and the Dark Lord coincidentally have similar facial features…" Harry trailed off. He had snagged onto the conversation Tom was holding with Daphne.

"I like you, Tom," Daphne was saying nervously.

"Many people do," Riddle teased, a mocking smile plucking at the edges of his lips. "There is nothing not to like about me… I'm clever, powerful…a good friend. You know, I daresay Harry likes me too."

Daphne turned a distasteful red colour.

Rather like an overripe tomato.

"But do you like _him_? Harry, I mean?"

Tom arched an eyebrow, and proceeded to toy with his prey. "There is nothing unlikable about him, Daphne."

"That is not what I meant."

"Oh?" Tom leant forward to whisper in her ear. "Then, I'm afraid, I do not understand. Please elaborate, Miss Greengrass. _What_ precisely do you mean?"

"Nothing…" Daphne blinked seductively at Tom. "Do you like _me_ in a… romantic way?"

Harry curbed a smirk. She fell hard for Tom. There was no more going back. Crushing on a young Dark Lord had its consequences.

He knew Daphne thought Tom was a beautiful snake.

But he thought a smart girl like her would have realised that the most beautiful, the most exotic, snakes on earth were also the most venomous.

One bite, one flash of fang, could bring down a much larger animal.

"Do I?" Tom twirled Daphne smartly by the wrist. "You answer for me."

"Tom…" Daphne looked almost helpless, dangling off his arm. "Give me a straight reply." Her hopes began rise to a crescendo.

"Slytherins do not do that."

"Well then, will you at least tell me what you see when you look at me?" Daphne tilted her head attractively, her lips parting.

She gave Harry the impression that she wished to crawl inside Tom's skin and hug each of his organs individually.

"Let us put it this way…" Tom whispered. "You are a human interpretation of beauty. Pretty as a painting; I'd love to hang you."

Daphne did not comprehend the insult, but Harry certainly did. This time, he did let out a bark of laughter involuntarily.

Immediately, he found himself pinned by an odd look from Astoria, who seemed as if she was tempted to click her fingers under his nose.

"Earth to Harry," she said. "Care to share what you were concentrating on? They say it's bad manners to ignore your feminine partner."

"Nothing…"

"Step forward, step back, step forward and – _ouch!_"

"Dear Merlin, I'm so sorry!" Harry apologised, with a stumble. It seemed he really needed to keep his head from drifting into the clouds. "That must've hurt, me trotting on you like that. Oh, God."

"Oi." Astoria gave his sleeves a sharp pull. "Don't make a big fuss, I'm alright, and look, you've drawn attention."

Tom had shot them yet another entertained expression that made Harry grit his teeth. Daphne, however, was looking furious.

"Astoria," she hissed lowly, "why are you dancing with _him? _I thought I _told_ you to find Mr Malfoy!"

_"I_ happen to like him perfectly fine," Astoria retorted. "Much better than Malfoy, at least!"

The senior Greengrass sister glanced worriedly at Tom, hoping he had not heard Astoria's statement at odds with her own when she suggested that Astoria fancied Draco. However, Tom looked like he could not care less about who was keen on whom.

"What is wrong with him?" he asked silkily, albeit dangerously. "Surely he doesn't have, like, some kind of disease?"

Daphne opened her mouth as if about to say something but closed it again and relented. "Of course not," she said. "Come along, Tom, let us grab some drinks." She tugged the Slytherin Heir away, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of his murderous expression.

Before he had time to mull over it, Astoria turned to face him. "Do you hate Daphne as much as she hates you?"

Harry spluttered at the straightforwardness. "We do not hate each other!"

"Don't kid yourself," Astoria muttered. "Her favourite hobby is hurling verbal abuse at the 'insufferable whelp' behind his back."

… The girl was honestly _too_ candid.

"Well, I can't help it if she loathes me – but what on earth makes you believe I return her lovely sentiments?"

"Daphne assigns herself a personal mission of making the life of whomever she hates hell," Astoria chirped. "So, naturally, I thought you would not be her number one fan."

"Hate her as much as you want." She placed her hands on her hips. "Just as word of warning though, don't you dare use tonight's duel as a chance to hurt her or _I'll_ become your worst nightmare."

Harry was not daunted in the least by the threat… but he found her attempts at protecting her sister rather sweet.

—0O0—

_"Reducto!"_

Harry ducked for cover, knees instinctively bending as he crouched inwards upon himself. His eyes widened. The sheer force whipped his hair into his face as the spell sailed neatly over his head, and in the next second, a shield had been weaved around him, wrapping him tightly in a cocoon as the spell blasted into the wall behind him.

Daphne was uncommonly vicious this evening – and that was saying something.

Chunks of wood, splinters, concrete and who knows what else flew towards him, bouncing harmlessly off his protection.

_"Vivi,"_ he hissed, and the fragments lifted from the ground as if they had lives of their own. _"Oppugnare."_

Under the control of his spell, the debris took wing and raced at Daphne, shards of wood angling like needles at her skin.

"Scuto." A globe of light flickered in front of the witch. Harry smirked in triumph as Greengrass made her first mistake.

The fragments from the explosion tore past her shield as if it did not exist. It was not until a few slivers had plunged themselves into her flesh, eagerly drawing blood, that she realised her armour, effective as it was against spells, was useless countering physical objects.

"Morietur!" Daphne shrieked. The wreckage sank to the floor again, completely void of the life Harry had given them.

But the damage had been done, and Daphne was a pitiful sight to behold. Her silken blonde hair was matted with dirt and little chips of wood. Her soft face, aside from the savage snarl, had a bloody scratch starting from her cheek to her jaw.

Harry cracked a taunting grin. "Look what the cat dragged in."

A tightening of the jaw. A thinning of the rosy lips. The woman looked like she had half a mind to discard her wand and lurch on top of Harry to take him apart like a broken clock with her bare hands.

Tragically, that was not an option with the intense audience that the Dark Lord and his followers made.

Harry could sense the pressure of the countless gazes pressing down on him as the Death Eaters viewed the duel.

He could feel himself being picked apart and assessed and judged on his worth. The ravenous hunger, the blood thirst and the immediate condemnation of the weaker apprentice was manifesting in the atmosphere.

If he lost the duel, he could anticipate numerous hexes coming his way in the following weeks.

However, this was his chance. He could prove himself. He could end the duel in the most humiliating way for Daphne.

"Imperio," Daphne shouted.

A deft sidestep on his part was enough to shirk the basic Unforgivable. The aim was exceptional and it burned into the ground where he once stood – but Harry was a moving target not an immobile one – and he moved with practised ease.

"Crucio!"

It appeared Daphne was learning; this time, the curse was trained slightly to the right of where Harry stood. The witch expected Harry to step directly into the line of the speeding spell. Instead, he moved to his left.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the ghost of a smile on Lord Voldemort's face and a more blatant one pasted on Tom's. The two versions of the Dark Lord were sitting side by side, murmuring quietly to each other.

Harry wondered if they weren't betting on the results of the duel… But as far as he was concerned, there was only one possibility of the finish. And the loser wasn't going to be him.

With a flick of the wrist, he lazily directed a Furnunculus Hex at the female, watching as she deflected it.

Pity… It would have made for a hilarious picture if boils erupted across her arms… oh well… He had plenty of time… and he already knew how he wanted Daphne to go down.

"Petrificus Totalus," he drawled. She dodged that one too. "Expelliarmus." He was going easy on her, had been since the start of their duel, and she knew it. The schoolboy jinxes were a terrible insult.

"Have you only learnt _these_ in the last five years?" Daphne sneered, sending a dirty look at him. "Disappointing… I was hoping for more."

Of course she was… and he was going to give it to her… but as Tom said, good things came to those who wait.

"I fear you will faint if I do unleash everything," Harry returned smoothly. "And you _know_ how much I savour duelling with you. I want to make this last, make it memorable."

Her expression was fully capable of souring fresh milk.

"If you say so, Potter."

He did say so. He was more powerful than her and all he needed was to prove it. He hadn't lied when he said he wished to make the duel last.

It was truly delicious, seeing Daphne's desperate attempts to stand her ground, seeing her struggles to keep the prospect of victory in her sight.

He was the one in control. He could pause in the midst of a shower of hexes to give his opponent a rest or he could continue until the opposition cracked. So far, he had chosen the former, but everything was under control.

Now he understood why Tom took so much pleasure from playing with his meal before he ate it.

"Adstrangulo, ungues, crucio!"

A whirl storm of curses tore at him, closing in from all directions, flaunting their dangerous intents. Harry decided that this was where he would end this.

After today, there would be no more useless, traitor apprentice nonsense.

He mustered all his energy, every single drop, and marshalled it into a tight ball at the bottom of his stomach. And expended it on one of the most elaborate, more complex, patterns of magic he had ever done.

To Daphne's eyes, her curses shattered in Harry's face and the last Cruciatus Curse shot point-blank into his chest.

The fabric covering his chest ripped, bursting from the utter ferocity of the blow. A look of agony was etched across his face and he screamed. The piercing noise echoed through the ballroom, a long and empty exclamation of pain.

Tom had promptly leant forward, emotionless mask gone and face decorated in disbelief.

As for the Dark Lord, he wore a small knowing smile as he perched calmly in his seat.

Accompanied by the triumphant simper adorning Daphne's lips, Harry seemed to tip forward, headfirst, in a curled-up ball of shivers and whimpers. He crumpled like a dry leaf on the platform, body convulsing as the Cruciatus continued to slash within him.

Daphne stepped towards the twitching form that writhed and thrashed on the floor until she loomed right above him, blotting out the lights. He lay at her feet, clearly unable to fend for himself, but her wand was still trained unyieldingly upon him.

Her hatred, flaring hatred, inspired the Cruciatus to maintain its excellent work. Famished eyes from the Death Eater crowd, keen to see blood spilt, egged her on.

Harry felt a sting of anger as he watched from his hidden position. Clearly, Greengrass needed to be taught a lesson on recognising when enough was enough.

He clicked his fingers idly.

With a startled gasp Daphne forgot about the broken figure whose face was pressed helplessly on the floor, and twisted to face him.

She saw a pair of frosty blue eyes glaring at her. The pale, alluring face, with the prominent nose and the gorgeous mouth, of the boy she had danced all evening was there, in front of her.

"Tom!" she said, seeming to be short of breath. "Why are you here…? You should be… there…"

She trailed off as she glanced towards where her lord was sitting. Tom Riddle _was_ where he should be, sitting next to the Dark Lord. He bore a cunning smirk that hinted at something Daphne did not understand.

But… if Tom Riddle was there, where he _should_ be… then the Tom Riddle in front of her was a –

Harry scoffed as the female finally caught on. It was too late. He whipped out his wand. "Stupefy."

Daphne Greengrass dropped like a stone.

His facial features, charmed to look like Tom's, morphed back into his own and he gave the stunned audience a mock bow before striding off.

The crumpled form of Harry Potter, the duplicate that had been tortured mercilessly, withered away in a gust of black smoke.

The face of the _real_ Harry tightened. Greengrass deserved everything she got. The Cruciatus Curse she had cast on his replacement assured him that.

If it _really had been_ him, he would have suffered afterwards from the prolonged exposure to the second Unforgivable.

As he looked upon the disarray of the previously glamorous ballroom, he felt no regrets.

* * *

**Chappie Challenge: 45 reviews. **

**Cheers until next chapter!**


	25. Of Psychopaths and Chess

**Disclaimer: Hmm... Harry Potter... not mine!**

**You guys did a good job. 39 reviews, not bad. :) But I'm going to continue being a greedy little creature and ask for 45! Here you go, some information from Tom's point of view and a nice little chess game to end it. Enjoy.**

* * *

Silken black hair like feathers on the neck of a raven. Skin as pale as the snowflakes that whirl from the sky on a winter night. Lips that resemble petals tainted by blood. Eyes, a startling blue, and yet as cold as cubes of ice.

He was truly a predator, a monster, a beast who feasted on others. He was a psychopath. A sadistic psychopath with a demonic bloodlust and an unhealthy appetite for suffering.

Charm, confidence, ruthlessness, coolness under pressure – Tom Riddle had plenty of everything.

Well, not _everything_, Tom was fully aware he did not have a conscience, none at all, no feelings of guilt or remorse no matter what he did, no limiting sense of concern for the welfare of strangers, friends, followers or even family members.

He had murdered Tom Riddle Senior in cold blood.

He had no struggles with shame, not when he had committed selfish, lazy, harmful, immoral crimes against anything, anyone.

The concept of responsibility was unknown to him, except as a burden that others seem to accept without question, like gullible fools. He would not take the trouble of managing a sense of duty like the rest of the mindless society.

If anyone could read his mind, they would call him a freak of nature… But nature needed him and others of his kind. The world, lovely as it was when full of kind and loving people, could only operate when there were creatures like him pulling the strings.

In order for civilisation to move forward, to progress, there had to be pitiless humans who would be ready to do anything.

Those psychopaths who became serial killers and ended up rotting behind bars were idiots. They had fallen prey to their own impulsiveness and violent character; they did not know how to use the gifts they had been blessed with.

The successful psychopaths, on the other hand, were a different matter all together… They grew up to become influential politicians, businessmen, lawyers, judges, presidents…

Tom Riddle liked to think of himself as the latter type rather than buffoons like Ted Bundy who made a laughingstock out of psychopaths. One only had to take a good long look at the media to see that the image of the rare psychological issue had been twisted into something ridiculously disgusting.

Hannibal the Cannibal, Norman Bates and so forth.

In his opinion, the written history of mankind had proven the point that power came with harshness, time and time again. There had to be manipulators behind the curtains.

Adolf Hitler, despite his atrocity, had led Germany to the top, if only for a short while.

Mao Zedong, or Chairman Mao, had been a Chinese communist revolutionary and had seen his fair share of victories but he had indirectly killed more people than Hitler.

Napoleon Bonaparte, a respected man who was accountable for the advancement of the world, had been the first man to ask himself rationally the question how to eliminate, in as short a time as possible, and with a minimum of cost and personnel, a maximum of people.

Anyone who had read books on Napoleon's conquests, or the conquests of any great conqueror, would find numerous tales of bloodletting.

To be fair, not all of the leaders had been psychopaths – but it had demonstrated that success came with brutality. It was inevitable.

To most people, Tom Riddle's condition was a strange fantasy, but to him, it was reality. He had developed the ability to conceal that his very core was radically different from the rest of the population.

Since everyone simply assumed that conscience was universal among human beings, hiding the fact that he was apathetic was nearly effortless.

He was not held back from any of his desires by worldly traits such as contriteness, and he was never confronted by others for his cruelty… The ice water in his veins was so bizarre, so completely outside of their personal experience, that they seldom even guessed at his condition.

In other words, he was completely free of internal restraints, and his unhampered liberty to do just as his please, with no pangs of conscience, was conveniently invisible to the world.

Tom could do anything at all, he had a secret advantage and coupled with the matching handicap of other people – morality, he was fated for success.

He owned the heart of the devil and the face of an angel… His heart, his crux, had become solid ice as his age increased… it made him stronger. His psychopathic disorder gave him perfection, and despite what psychiatrists would say, Tom needed no curing.

There was only one other who understood him – the Dark Lord, who technically was a twisted version of himself.

Tom Riddle had been content with his ice crux; he did not want to be anything else. He was callous and stony and nothing more.

But when Harry Potter entered the picture, everything changed. All that Tom recognised, including himself, was torn apart by the teenager and rearranged.

In those five years that Harry had lived with him, Tom had exerted himself to moulding the younger boy into a darker figure.

It had worked. He had got Harry to abandon his light principles. Except his approach practically backfired and became a hopeless situation. In the process of shaping Harry, he had been changed too. It was a heavy price to pay.

Tom doubted that Harry had deliberately changed him, but Tom could not have stopped it either way. Per se, Tom had no intentions of turning into a nicer person but Potter's personality had rubbed off a little on him.

Not the sympathy or the compassion or the saving people thing, thank Merlin, otherwise Tom might've fainted at the horror but he had acquired a minor fondness for Harry. The first minor fondness he had felt for anyone in his life.

If anyone asked, he would have promptly yanked his wand out and cursed them to oblivion, but no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he _did_ care for Harry's wellbeing.

Not only was it a rather embarrassing thing for a future Dark Lord to have attachments but it was also against the very temperament of a psychopath. It was a weakness.

And if he was completely honest, Tom was feeling lost about what he should do.

At first, five years ago, Harry had been little more than a pawn to him and Tom had anticipated the day when Harry could become a black queen on the chessboard; if the boy got wiped out, so be it, no biggie.

Unfortunately, somewhere, at some place, something went wrong…

Tom loathed putting it like that. He was a mastermind; he was not designed to ever slip up and his plans had never gone awry as preposterously as this.

It was just so damn confusing. When had things _ever_ gotten so complex for him before?

He usually relied on his genius mind, which had always managed to lay things out like a clear, unfolded map before him, but his intellect seemed to have been reduced to a soft mass of goo by Harry Aggravating Potter. It offered him no help.

He sounded like a bloody ninny of a girl.

He had no friends, only allies, end of subject.

Maddeningly, it wasn't the end of the matter. Harry Potter was a chink in his armour, a narrow crack. Tom Marvolo Riddle was beyond frustrated. He was trapped between some pitiful hybrid of frustration and unease. It was pathetic.

He knew this soft spot had not sprung up on him in one night. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day. He had spent too many years in denial, hiding from himself the fact that he took an interest in the health of someone else.

Recently, it became too difficult to continue his denial. He had bargained with Voldemort for Harry, and protected the boy, to a great extent, from all potential damage. It seemed almost as if there wasn't _anything_ he wouldn't do to ensure the brat's safety.

And _now_, he had to put up with the various teething troubles that came with genuine care. If he had less self-preservation and more masochism, he might have been tempted to punch his fist into a wall.

As it was, the only thing he had been tempted to punch was Daphne Greengrass as she hurled one Unforgivable after the other at Harry while the two ducked and weaved and exchanged blows.

His one and only consolation had been that he would have shattered her heart and slashed her limbs from her body if she maimed the teenage Horcrux.

It had been a shock, a bolt from the blue, when a Cruciatus plunged into Harry's chest.

Tom had _heard_ the loud rip of fabric, heard the scream, the exclamation of pain. He had _seen_ the boy writhing, thrashing defencelessly.

Emotionlessness had been forgotten in the apprehension of the moment. Tom's heart, frozen against anything and everything, had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

The triumphant simper adorning Daphne's lips seared his mind, and he wished nothing more than to kill her, right then and there. Harry had tipped forward, headfirst, in a ball. Crumpling like a dead leaf. Convulsing desperately.

… Then it turned out that the Harry being tortured was a replica… and all was actually going flawlessly for the real Harry.

It was too much for him.

Tom Riddle had always been an extremist. When he hated, he hated to the extreme. No target could ever escape his wrath. But when he loved, say, the Dark Arts, well, he did that to the extreme too.

He pressed his fingers to his temples. He could think up a long list of major negatives to being an extremist.

Dear Merlin…

He was a psychopath, he was sure, but who'd ever heard of a _caring_ psychopath? Ridiculous, ridiculous circumstances he had gotten himself into. Granted, he only cared about _one_ person, but one was a lot.

How Voldemort would laugh if he knew.

Oh, fantastic, Tom had a pounding headache now. He pushed himself to his feet and headed for the door that Harry had exited sometime in the last thirty minutes. He'd deal his little problem with it later.

As he walked, Tom saw Daphne crawling onto her knees in defeat, features twisted into a wretched expression of incredulity. He gave her the most menacing look he could summon, promising her a bloody fate, and her face crumpled miserably when she saw him.

Served her right. Later, he would ensure that she received what she deserved.

—0O0—

'Revenge is a dish best served cold.'

Harry, truthfully, could not agree with the saying more.

Having lived for sixteen years, he had seen his fair share of appealing meals and sugary treats, but he didn't think he had ever tasted anything sweeter than newly extracted vengeance after a series of scheming.

Naturally, there were those rare species of people who proclaimed that revenge left a nasty, corrosive aftertaste like one of those cheap Russian wines that placed a lingering flavour of pureed asparagus, sea slug and mouse fur in the mouth.

Harry winced at the thought. For him, the triumph of a won duel and the satisfaction of finally getting back at Daphne Greengrass overrode everything.

Especially each time he thought of how she had mercilessly tortured his counterpart.

As soon as the duel had been concluded, he had excused himself and left, to the sound of applause from the audience.

He'd headed straight to his bedroom, eager to get there before the tiredness had fully seeped into his bones.

The aftermaths of the sorcery he had performed took its toll on him, draining his energy quicker than fire devoured wood.

It had been extremely advanced magic, to duplicate a carbon copy of himself that possessed no real life of its own and yet behaved as he would, let alone adapting the facial features of Tom Riddle.

Harry was not a real Metamorphmagus, therefore, the intricacy of the human transfiguration spell sapped at his power like mad.

The Dark Lord must've been impressed. Harry sensed the predatory eyes ploughing into his back, tracking him even as he exited the wreck of a ballroom.

To be honest, the intense, penetrating stares that appraised him were really unnerving.  
It was as though Harry was a piece of meat and the Dark Lord was asking himself where to put Harry in the fridge, or maybe whether to cook him with carrots or just to throw him into a bowl of soup.

He shrugged inwardly.

He couldn't care less.

He was already the apprentice of the Dark Lord and it was rather noticeable that Voldemort was attentive where his magical progresses were involved.

Harry was used to it now…

… Even if it was blatantly annoying, and he thought Voldemort should just go and read a book on basic human courtesy… And hopefully, the book would clearly state that unwelcome staring is a sign of rudeness.

Anyhow, Harry was struck by the appeal of clambering into bed, beneath the sheets, and simply being dead to the world for ten or so hours. He would honestly trade _anything_ for a little bit of restful sleep.

Every step, every raise of the foot, cost him effort and he literally felt like a dead corpse walking… All he needed, at the moment, was a snooze.

But he couldn't.

He was covered in bits and pieces of filth and rubble. If his assumption was correct, splinters of wood had found his tangled hair a suitable nesting home. And, above all, he had to clean his cuts and scrapes.

He had to bath first.

_How inconvenient._

Dragging his feet across the floor, he, with a deadbeat sigh, made the long and painful journey to the en suite.

The minute he reached his destination, he turned all the hot water taps on full and drowsily tipped more or less half a bottle of shampoo and rose fragranced body wash into the bathtub. Large, soapy bubbles were immediately produced.

He stifled a yawn with a hand and grabbed a couple of towels from the closet, dumping them on the floor before undressing.

The cold instantaneously smacked him in the chest.

Shivering, he was driven to swiftly submerging in the bath; the bubbles came up to the underside of his chin. His nose twitched at the powerful scent drifting from the surrounding water.

Roses. Dear Merlin, he would smell like he'd been _rolling_ _in the petals _by the time he was finished with the bath. _Oh, well…_ He could not bring himself to mind just at the moment.

_And oh, the warmth, the lovely high temperature…_

Harry nearly crooned in relaxation. His stiff muscles, which had been straining in protest a minute ago, loosened comfortably. It felt deliciously good, to have the water rippling over his body, washing away the tension.

Reaching over, he turned off the taps, leaving only one running.

The hot liquid tricked over his neck, his shoulders. It felt so lovely that Harry never wanted to move.

He laid his head down on the edge of the tub and stayed there. His eyelids grew rapidly heavier and finally, he stopped struggling to lift them. His breaths evened out and he was just simply drifting, drifting in the water…

One of the taps continued running.

**...**

Harry jolted awake, wide green eyes shooting open.

Darkness.

Darkness gathered all around him, and he had no idea where he was…

He flailed, arms lashing out, and water splashed everywhere. The bathtub. He was the bathtub. Oh, right, he had been taking a bath when he…

He berated himself furiously for falling asleep while taking a bath. It was pathetic. The water was cold now, and he might narrowly avoid getting a cold if he got out quickly enough…

His hand slipped out of the tub to reach for the towels he had thrown on the floor earlier… only to grasp water. The liquid slipped through his outstretched fingertips and made an empty plopping sound as it landed back.

Shivering from the cold, Harry stood up in the tub and looked over.

Dear Merlin…

It was a gigantic mess. He could not believe he had been so careless as to leave a tap running while he took his nap. The room had been just about flooded.

The blasted water literally was all over the place, high and low, leaving the formerly orderly room in disarray. The mats were entirely submerged, engulfed, by the knee-high tap water.

Harry cursed, using some of the most obscene language he knew, under his breath. He suspected his wand was underwater too, and it would take forever to find… Damn it.

Sheer foolishness. He could hardly believe –

Brisk knocks rained down on his bathroom door, prompting a yelp of surprise from his throat. He ducked back into the tub, aware he had absolutely nothing to cover himself with.

"Harry?" the knocker, who sounded rather like Tom, shouted. "Are you in there? There is a lock on the door."

"I'm in here."

"Open the door."

"Can't at the moment, sorry," he replied loudly. "The room in practically underwater and –"

_"Alohomora!"_

The door burst open with a snap, slamming against the wall; as the silhouette of Tom Riddle stalked in, face taut with irritation.

If it was humanly possible, the frustrated expression pasted on the face of the Slytherin Heir turned downright livid when he realised the bottom half of his trousers were drenched with the water that swamped the room.

"Potter," he snarled, "what the hell is the meaning of this?"

Inwardly, Harry heaved a heavy sigh. It was the most embarrassing situation he had gotten trapped in, recently. Tempers were running short.

"Just get rid of it," he snapped.

Even in the darkness, Harry could catch a glimpse of the narrowing blue eyes. "You have certainly done a wonderful job," Tom sneered, brandishing his wand.

"No need to be sarcastic," Harry bit.

"Evanesco."

Every sprinkle of water vanished within the fraction of a second. Including those in the bathtub. With an alarmed squeak, Harry cowered in upon himself.

He counted his lucky stars that the annoying Slytherin Heir was not close enough to see him.

"Get out," he muttered. "And hurl me a towel."

Perhaps it was the harsh tone, or maybe the ingratitude, but something in that comment caused the leftover patience to shatter. Tom Riddle all but exploded in a bout of fury.

"Ordering me around now, Harry?" he inquired pitilessly. "You can go and get your towels yourself if you want them so much."

With that, he turned on his heels and marched out, without as much as a backward glance at the seething teen behind him.

"Fine," Harry retorted, in a mutter to himself, and he grabbed his wand that now lay on the dry bathroom floor.

**...**

Harry stepped out from the en suite, fully dressed in pristine pyjamas and displaying a towel around his neck that dripped water like a wet scarf. Smiling at the inviting thought that the bed was awaiting his arrival, he moved from the tiles onto carpet.

Only to freeze in shock at the astonishing picture of the two Dark Lords sitting nonchalantly on _his_ bed, engaged in a lively conversation.

The Slytherin Heir stiffened like a wooden plank and sent a glare in Harry's direction the second he caught sight of him.

For his part, Harry ignored the undeserved gesture of hostility and said bluntly, "I was going to sleep – except I do not find the idea of you guys _watching_ me do so… very appealing."

"Is that another way of asking us to clear out?" Tom challenged, acerbically.

Harry feigned thoughtfulness. "Yeah… I suppose it is," he replied sarcastically, determinedly taking no notice of the darkening expression on Riddle's face. "It's just a more courteous method than directly demanding you get out of my room."

"Well –"

"Forgive me for saying so," the Dark Lord interrupted his younger version silkily, "but Harry, you do not appear to me like you are lacking any naps."

"Rather expected," Tom returned, with a barbed tongue flicking infuriatingly at Harry, "especially when one considers that he chose to slumber while taking a bath."

"Excuse me, I did not _choose_ –" Harry made it to the middle of his sentence before he was also cut off by the Dark Lord.

"In that case," Voldemort continued softly, paying no attention to him, "Harry, you may as well indulge us."

He sighed heavily in exasperation. "Are you requesting me to give up my _own_ health in order to give _you_ entertainment? Does not sound like a fair bargain to me."

"Whoever said I was fair?"

Harry snorted rather derisively. "Well, don't look at _me."_

"Still, I'd prefer you think of my… _our_," Voldemort added as an afterthought after a glance at Tom, "company as a rare opportunity you ought to embrace than reject. If you enormously wish for us to disappear, we will."

At those words, Harry fidgeted with his hair awkwardly.

"It is unbefitting for one to _force_ their company on another." Voldemort cleared his throat pointedly. "And as a Dark Lord, I have numerous subjects who would be keen to gift me their grandmothers for a minute of my time."

"Um…" Harry flapped a hand dismissively, no longer bothering to waste energy on deterring the two wizards. "Oh, well… I guess an hour will not hurt… at least not as much as giving you my grandmother…"

"I knew you would come to your right mind." The Dark Lord smiled sharply.

Harry uttered a low growl at the back of his throat. "Are you going to tell me what you want to do or not…?"

"I thought we could play some… chess." Voldemort nodded almost imperceptibly at the bed cover beside him. Harry noticed for the first time since he had emerged from the bathroom that there was a chess set on it.

Instinctively, his gaze landed on one of the broad shelves which should have held the set that had been collecting dust from the time when he had initially commenced in a chess game with the dark wizard.

The shelf was now empty.

He looked back at the set clasped in between Voldemort's pale fingers. A sense of familiarity hit him.

Last time he had been creamed so ridiculously by his former guardian that he was too embarrassed to show his face after three rounds in a row of losing. The Dark Lord was a master of chess... it did not look good for Harry.

"Okay," he agreed.

He could not believe he was doing this, assenting to this. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Tom with an arched eyebrow.

"You know you will lose no matter what?"

Harry jerked back at the comment, glowering at Riddle. "Thanks for the encouragement," he drawled, "but it's really not necessary… or welcome, for that matter."

"I'll let you go first, you can be White," Voldemort said, already positioning the pieces on the board.

"Chess is not only simply a game but also training for the mind. It weaves around strategy and manipulation; one has to learn when to sacrifice a pawn for the greater gain. With that said, I doubt you can win him," Tom commented, refusing to shut up.

Harry steadfastly disregarded the scathing remarks. "Pawn to G4."

His chess piece immediately put up a heated argument, shaking its white head in aggravation. "Stupid boy," it was saying. "Appalling move!"

"Be quiet."

"I mean it, little boy, you are going to fail us."

Tom stifled a snicker of laughter and Voldemort, too, appeared like he was biting the insides of his lips in amusement.

"Hold your tongue, will you?" he ordered the piece.

"I do not have a tongue."

_"Argh!" _Harry hissed. "You will listen to me, you are only a _pawn_!"

There was an audible sigh, and the wayward thing shuffled forward onto its new position.

"Pawn to E5," Voldemort countered.

"Knight to F3."

"Bishop to B4."

In two moves, the Dark Lord closed in on the game board.

"Pawn to A3." Harry knew the bishop could not eat his pawn because it would get devoured by his defences.

Voldemort moved his bishop away onto square A5.

After twenty minutes of tussling between the chess pieces, Harry realised he had improved majorly, but he feared he would lose the game nonetheless when the dark wizard flashed him a triumphant smile and wiped out his white queen. "One more move and I will be able to check you," Voldemort said gently.

"Merlin…" Harry groaned. "You are going to win."

He was caught by surprise when Tom Riddle, who had been sneering repeatedly at his moves in the last minutes, claimed, "Not so fast, my Lord."

The Slytherin Heir leant over Harry, frowning in consideration, and ordered the rook to move forward by two squares.

The rook was instantly devoured by Voldemort's pawn, and Harry scowled in irritation at the obvious failure of a move.

A moment later, his scowl turned to a small grin when Tom nudged a solitary knight to consume the pawn. He was now in a position to both check the king and capture the queen. Harry gazed in wonder as Voldemort was forced to sacrifice the queen in order to quickly shift the king.

With a brandished sword, the knight shattered the queen.

"Good move," Harry murmured.

Tom's lips twitched. "Voldemort is not the only genius in the room."

Following such a declaration was a battle of cunning and different lines of attack that set Harry's heart racing as he watched the intense exchange.

Suddenly, it was not him against Voldemort anymore.

Tom was versing the Dark Lord.

The chess game played late into the night, lasting over two hours. Riddle and Voldemort both suffered losses and successes and the two indirectly mocked each other with neat conversations – it was rather exciting for Harry to view.

It went far past the time Harry planned to go to bed at, but none of them found it within themselves to quit.

In the end, it had been brought to a stalemate.

Tom only had his king left, alone on the board, without any protection.

Voldemort had nothing but _his_ king and a bishop.

Neither was able to checkmate the other.

It had been a good evening. Harry hid a yawn behind his hand as the two versions of the Dark Lord bid him goodnight and left.

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**If I can fit it in, and if things go as planned, the next chapter will be extremely exciting. Full of Daphne and Harry... And this time, Daphne might do something so unforgivable that she just may pay with her life. Sorry for the spoiler... *Evil chuckle***

**Cheers! Until next chapter! And don't forget to review if you liked it. :) **


	26. Teacup of Red Revenge

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me! **

**Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Really. I know the update has been extremely slow but close to the end of the chapter is some excitement which will be carried out in the next few chapters. Hopefully you will forgive me for my slowness. Recently I got a border collie puppy and my grandparents, who really hate dogs, found out... and many annoying things happened.**

**_Anyway_****, thank you for your brilliant, brilliant reviews - and I just wanted to tell you that each and every single one means the world to me. Really. :) Reviews for this chapter are encouraged. ;)**

**Sorry, no slash planned for this fic. **

**On with the story!**

* * *

_One Month Later_

"…regrettably he was not in his office."

"The Dark Lord is gone."

The teen came to a dead halt, striking green eyes widening in a hybrid of astonishment and rage. Dark brows furrowed automatically at the claim uttered flatly in a deadpan tone.

"Gone?" Harry echoed, with a dash of anger. "Do you mean 'gone' as disappeared without a trace or 'gone' as in dead?"

He stared intently at the man who was imperturbably stirring his potion with his wand, greasy strands of black hair almost an inch from dipping into the concoction. The Potion master barely had the courtesy to spare him a sideways glance.

"No need to be so melodramatic, Potter," Snape retorted witheringly. "The Dark Lord merely has business in the world outside to tend."

Scoffing dryly in response, Harry paced back and forth in front of his old professor, fists clenched.

"That liar, he always does this," he muttered. "He still hasn't arranged even _one_ of those flying lessons he promised me a _month_ ago."

"Yes, Potter," Snape said sarcastically, still messing with the potion, "the Dark Lord has nothing better to do than indulge you… after all, the whole world revolves around you; your radiance is brighter than the sun itself."

Harry growled softly in reply.

"The Dark Lord's timetable has been particularly full of activity in the last month or so," Snape continued, "with details regarding a potential partnership and affairs that stretch beyond _your_ comprehension."

"Oh?" Harry challenged. "Try me."

"Dealings of the Dark Lord do not concern you."

"Says the greasy bat that lurks in his workroom all day long."

Severus Snape snapped his hand down on the wooden table sharply, and twisted round to glare his old student in the eye, piercingly.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr Potter," he said slickly, a corner of the lip curling upwards. "I am looking after your best interests."

Smirking, Harry pulled an arrogant expression that was more for show than anything else. "Good thing I'm not a cat then, isn't it?"

"I think you'll find that the saying applies to many more animals than just felines."

"Perhaps you're right."

"I am more than right, Potter," Snape remarked, adding a last sprinkle of cockroach dust to the bubbling brew. It turned a rather shocking shade of neon pink. "In fact –"

Harry interrupted, cutting across his speech, "When in Merlin's bloody beard did Voldemort go anyway?"

"Profanity is not tolerated in my presence," Snape commented deprecatingly. "If you prefer getting kicked out of my workroom, then, by all means, go ahead –"

"Fine, sorry," Harry said, flicking a wrist in dismissal.

However, Snape seemed resolute to finish what words he started, "– otherwise, clean your mouth before you open it again."

_"Okay," _Harry stressed the term. "So… how come he left without leaving any sort of message for me or Tom?"

"Again, I am forced to repeat, Potter, that the world does not revolve around you," Snape said. "The Dark Lord must have had his reasons – or lack thereof – for writing a sentimental letter of farewell to you."

Harry sighed and marched across the room, focusing on the swirly patterns that decorated the wall.

"Are you _trying_ to wear a hole through my carpet?" Snape asked.

"No." He stopped his pacing. "Or I'd simply take out my wand and blast it to smithereens."

The Potions master glowered fiercely at him. "I'd like to see if you dare, Potter."

"But why should I explode your carpet? That would be pointless… it doesn't solve anything." Harry rolled his eyes. "Hey, are you _sure_ you cannot tell me where _he_ went? Truth be told, I need to know –"

"Your determined pursue for answers is inane and I have no time for it," Snape said cuttingly. "It is not a secret that the Dark Lord is hoping to recruit vampire covens to enlarge his forces against Dumbledore."

Ears perking up in fascination, Harry echoed, "Vampires? I thought they were independent creatures; I didn't know they still assembled in covens."

"Apparently, they do."

"I did not quite catch the part about why Voldemort disappeared so _urgently_ to rejoice with blood-sucking leeches."

"Mind your tongue, Potter," Snape said. "The leeches are a vital factor determining whether it will be our lord's victory or downfall…"

He scowled grimly at Harry. "Now that I have told you what you wanted to know, can you leave me in peace?"

Taking a spoon, Snape ladled a generous amount of the slimy liquid in the cauldron into a polished glass flask. "My next potion requires the utmost care and concentration, neither of which is possible while you are here."

"I'll go immediately, oh, and thank you for your information." Harry moved towards the exit of the room, pausing hesitantly at the door as if remembering something. "When will the Dark Lord come back?"

"I have no idea."

Harry skirted out with a wave of goodbye, letting the door slide close behind him. "Au revoir, Professor."

—0O0—

Harry sauntered from the gloom of the potions workroom, up the grand staircases and past the egotistic, gold-framed portraits, many of whom glared down their noses at him, as if offended by his smell.

The Dark Lord must have left in the early hours of dawn, probably before the first rays of light even struck the sky.

Or Harry would have bumped into him.

Harry himself was an early riser, and he tended to dine on whatever scrumptious breakfast the elves scrambled to prepare ahead of everybody else.

After all, the early bird caught the worm…

Plus, he rather relished the tranquil, undisturbed privacy that the empty kitchen provided him. That type of serene stillness was very hard to come by during these days of constant chaos and dark magic and war.

Once he'd finished his routine breakfast, Harry had disappeared to find the Dark Lord.

The damned man was exceedingly busy in those recent weeks, time and time again failing to make an appearance at dinner. Harry had thought a reminder regarding his flying lessons was in order, lest the wizard forget.

The attempt to seek Voldemort out, Harry realised, soon proved to be a grave mistake. It was a worthless waste of time.

Having literally searched high and low for the Dark Lord, scanning room to room starting with his neat office, Harry had finally gone to Snape – and it turned out the entire bloody search had been for nothing.

By that time, the morning had slipped by, unnoticed, and it was late noon.

His stomach rumbled unceremoniously – and almost subconsciously, Harry made his way to the kitchens.

Unfortunately, Harry was sorry to say, it turned out to be an inopportune moment to order a filling lunch.

The slender, graceful back of Daphne Greengrass, hunched over what seemed to be a teapot, brought a displeased frown to Harry's face. She was literally the very last person he wished to see.

Planning on quietly walking out and coming back later when the hag was gone, Harry turned.

In perfect unison, the floor let out a deafening creak.

Daphne leapt up, a strangely panicked expression passing fleetingly over her sharp features before she gained enough composure to conceal her shock at being intruded upon.

Her hands fumbled, twitching, and Harry noted that she had been pouring an attractive flask of colourless liquid into the teapot. Daphne tossed the flask aside, and he saw that it was empty of its contents.

Curiosity probed at him – but he steeled himself resolutely against it. It was none of his business anyway. "Feeling tense, are you?"

Pleasant manners and Pureblood etiquettes blowing away like an elegant wisp of disbanding mist, Daphne sneered at him, red lips twisting cruelly in irascibility. "What are _you_ doing here, Potter?" She spat out his last name as if it had a bitter edge to it.

"For the same reason you are here," Harry replied coolly. "Of course."

Daphne appeared marginally taken aback, blanching a shade paler. "Drop your games," she hissed ominously. "I have no time for them."

"Do not fret, your Ladyship," Harry said sarcastically, raising his mockingly in a feigned gesture of appeasement. "I have no time for you either."

Her smooth face, which otherwise may genuinely have looked incredibly beautiful, contorted into a warped expression of menacing hostility. "If I were you, Harry, I would be extremely careful where I tread."

Harry arched a questioning eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Have you not heard?" Her voice grew ever softer. "The Dark Lord will be gone for a week or so, and within that time range, you cannot hide using him as your safeguard."

Green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is this a threat?"

"No; it is simply a fact I am kindly sharing with you."

"I am grateful towards you," Harry said, "but your facts are not necessary; I can take care of myself well enough –"

"– and yet you require the Dark Lord to mollycoddle you. Are you a wizard who is nearly of age or a toddler, I wonder?" The remark was accompanied by a shrill, disdainful laugh.

"I doubt the Dark Lord makes a habit out of selecting toddlers for apprentices."

Daphne unleashed a smirk, like a cat that got the cream. Harry knew, however, that beneath the smug facade was a storm of negative emotions. _Hatred, rage, envy, spite._ They _all_ targeted him, each and every single one of them. "I assume you are a special case."

"Yes, well, at least special cases are interesting enough to capture your lord's attention," Harry countered quietly. "We wouldn't want to be boring, would we?"

"Definitely not."

"Only dead fish swim with the stream all the time," Harry murmured. "The quickest method to bleed someone's interest is to act dull."

Daphne nodded warily, aware that she was being baited.

"And, oh, you know…" Harry drummed his slim fingers on the table in neat rhythms, "… Tom is not well known for playing with dreary toys that have all the entertainment drained out of them."

He tilted his head diplomatically. "Just a word of warning from a fellow apprentice."

Greengrass' face darkened from the paleness rivalling a snowflake, to the dark red of a rotting tomato left in the sun for too long.

Harry barely supressed an explosion of laughter. They both knew his words were not a prior warning as much as the current predicament; Tom was ignoring Daphne.

Snubbing her downright. Had been at it since the duel. He disparaged her attempts at flirtation with either contempt or indifference.

Daphne, the poor, silly girl, could not seem to comprehend that her Prince Charming had transformed into a lethal viper.

It was evident from the grimace that Tom Riddle was a sore spot for her… But then again, Harry found rubbing salt into her wounds utterly irresistible. Revenge was sweet.

While Harry successfully controlled his laughter, Daphne did not manage to rein in _her_ temper. Sucking in a sharp breath, the ice queen exploded – not in laughter but anger.

"Is this supposed to mean something?" she snapped, nostrils flaring.

Her eyelids were opening and closing violently fast, as though she was delirious in her fury. Figuratively speaking, she was frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.

Harry shrugged delicately. "Does it mean anything to you?" His voice rung coldly, crystal clear; it contrasted sharply with his gentle enquiry.

"Stay out of my love life," Daphne snarled, savagely with the refinement of a caveman. She appeared like she could hardly restrain herself from slapping him across the face, having deserted all her decorum.

He tsked, quietly. "That is rather a… an ill choice of terms. Love life suggests your relationship with your lover. Except Tom is not your sweetheart, is he?"

Silence grew like a heavy storm cloud of his declaration as Daphne refused to answer.

"I mean… he may be the love of your life…" Harry added a deliberate pause, for dramatic effect. "I apologise for putting it like this, but this infatuation may not be mutual. Of course, I do not mean you are arm candy or anything; it's just that this _love_ may be one-sided."

Her features twisted horribly at 'arm candy'. Harry doubted she appreciated the name, especially because it referred to an attractive companion who accompanied one at social events but held not real worth.

"Perhaps that is why Tom is, you know, _turning his back on you_…" Harry cleared his throat as if to say, '_ahem, this is awkward.'_

Greengrass bared her teeth. And Harry found himself wondering, in amusement, if she was secretly picturing tearing him apart with her teeth.

"Perhaps he thinks you are envisioning a bond that never existed. Riddle is a thoughtful boy at heart; I am guessing he simply doesn't want to lead you on."

_Pah. This is hilarious.  
_He was struggling hard not to chuckle at his own sentences. _Riddle, a thoughtful boy at heart? More like a flourishing sadist._

Nothing he said had ever been richer.

Her jaws clenched tighter and Harry swore he could hear a grinding noise. A short, humourless laugh emerged from her lips. "You sounded almost like you cared for a second."

"I _do_ care." He arranged his expression into an anxious, innocent one and pulled a sincere smile at his female nemesis.

Daphne's fingers twitched in the general direction of her sleeve, where her wand lay within.

"I'd bet you do." She eyed him viciously. "What bad, terrible things have you told Tom about me to keep him away?"

"I didn't have to say anything."

She scoffed. "And so he left of his own accord? Without any persuasion? I might actually believe you if I'm not convinced it was your doing, Potter."

"Sure." He looked like he could not care less. "Believe whatever makes you sleep at night. Nothing I claim will change your view… you know what they say: the eyes are useless if the mind is blind."

"My mind is not blind!" Daphne hissed venomously, malice lacing her every syllable. "You have to learn to respect your superiors, Potter –!"

In a cavalier manner, Harry flapped his hand in indifference. "What superiors? I see none around."

"I'm _sick_ of you, your presence, and your very existence!" Daphne spat out, impaling the teen with a lethal glare.

If looks could kill, he would be dead ten times over.

"Strutting around as if you own the place, stealing the Dark Lord's attention after you betrayed him, tainting the very name of the Dark Arts with your filthy blood!" Daphne did not even pause for breath. "You seem to be incapable of getting into your mind the fact that you are substandard; not worthy of being in my, or Tom's, company."

"Yet the lowly Half-blood can crush your dignity and best you in all areas of magic."

Daphne Greengrass barely looked human anymore. Her twisted red lips, coated with a surface shine, seemed to mirror the bloodlust on her mind. Her eyebrows, hunched low from the menacing frown, almost touched her eyelashes.

She was the least beautiful person Harry had ever seen in his life. If he did not know better, he would have assumed she had undergone plastic surgery and displayed her ugly heart on her face for all to see.

"Wait and see, Potter, I will ruin your wretched, worthless little life until you beg for death," Daphne promised lowly, her voice brushing silkily over him. The tone was deadly serious, grave. It was a vow more than anything else.

"Just wait. I'll see to it personally that you are broken. You look so arrogant now, but when the time comes – and it'll come soon, I guarantee you that – I'll take pleasure in watching you crumple."

Harry felt marginally unnerved by the solemnity.

"I'll turn the person you love against you. You will pay for the misfortunes you have caused me; there is a price for crossing me, for my lost favour with the Dark Lord."

Daphne marched across the room, pausing at the door.

"When you fall, I will be there. Not to catch you; to destroy you."

And then, to Harry's surprise, she opened the door and was gone.

It was a swift exit, and he was left to ponder on the meaning behind her last words of vengeance. She had indicated a painful experience, if not death for him, and she showed all the alarming signs of going through with her plans.

Harry knew a bluff when he saw one, especially a death threat… And honestly, Daphne's warning was ridiculous enough to be purely for intimidation purposes.

Except… he couldn't shake off the sincerity of Daphne's expression.

Oh well, he would just have to be extra cautious while he went about his daily tasks. No biggie.

Clicking his fingers, he summoned a pair of elves to prepare his lunch and when it was ready with hot stream arising from it, he took the tray graciously and disappeared to dine in the preferable privacy of his bedroom.

—0O0—

Late afternoon light flooded in through the window, lighting the room up with an enchanted ambience. It felt like nothing could possibly go wrong.

High over the horizon was the ball of fire that began the time-consuming task of drifting its way down to the bottom of the sky. The sky was painted with golden, peachy-orange coloured strokes of the brush, with clouds scattered throughout like wind-blown candyfloss.

It was a genuinely picturesque sight to behold.

But not for Harry who was already getting up from his sitting position at the desk that overlooked the wide windows.

Spending a couple of hours with only the company of pretty landscapes was like watching grass grow. Pleasant at first – but an activity that ensured terminal boredom.

Perhaps he could go to the kitchens to order another snack or…

With that in mind, he headed for the kitchens again.

It honestly was maddeningly inconvenient when one took into account the sheer multitude of stairs there were in Voldemort's manor. He did not care much for climbing up and down the things but until this day, his opinion about them had largely been indifferent.

Sadly, that soon changed.

Too much time had been wasted.

If only he had got there a minute earlier.

The picture that greeted him once he arrived in the kitchens was deceptively innocent at first glance but it set his heart racing once his mind registered the peril.

Tom Blasted Riddle was sitting calmly at a table, and directly in front of his was a steaming cup of jasmine tea, poured from a seemingly ordinary teapot.

Of course, it all could have been nothing… but the familiarity of the teapot jogged his memory.

Daphne Greengrass had been messing with it a few hours ago, tossing a small flask of _something_ into the liquid.

_Oh, great. _

Horror set in at the likelihood of a poison of some kind sitting at the bottom of Tom's cup, just eagerly _waiting_ to be drunk, to kick in.

Harry's reflexes spontaneously launched into action, arm outstretched to knock the cup aside. He was only a few metres from the Slytherin Heir, and pulling out a wand would have been too late.

_"Stop!"_ he called. _"Drop it!"_

Tom had already lifted it to his lips; he shot Harry a blank look of surprise.

Apparently, the warning shout had been too vague.

The cup tilted downwards and the drink surged forward onto Riddle's lips, keen to embrace the soft skin.

Harry was upon the older Slytherin. He reached out, with the quickness of lightning.

Tom took a sip.

With a hasty swipe, Harry knocked the cup and its contents flew onto the floor.

But it was too late.

The young Dark Lord had taken a sip, and the tea or potion or whatever had gotten into his system. Harry watched helplessly as his eyes glazed over.

"Tom?" he ventured, hardly daring to pray. "Are you…?"

As soon as it appeared, the glazed look was gone. Tom straightened up and sent Harry a stare of utter disapproval. "Why did you throw a cup of perfectly good tea?" he said wryly, tsking. "The elves will have one additional task."

Harry almost sighed in relief, but the unease was not wholly gone. "Did you taste anything strange in the tea?"

"Strange?" Tom arched a brow. "No. Did you plant a toad in there?"

"No…"

—0O0—

Harry burst into Professor Snape's workroom, expecting to find the wizard stiffly stirring one brew or another. He expected the reprimanding slap on the wrist about the importance of knocking on doors and not intruding on a private moment.

However, he did not find any of those.

The workroom was dark, silent and worse of all, completely deserted.

All hopes of immediately finding an answer to what the potion that Tom had drunk was vanished. For all it seemed, Tom was unharmed and the substance in the flask had been completely meaningless, resulting in nothing but a second of glazed eyes.

Except Harry was not happy with the apparent worry over nothing. He'd rather have an idea of what it was supposed to do than be sorry after something happened to Riddle.

All potions had purposes. Each master brewer and Potion master invented concoctions with certain desires in mind. As far as Harry knew, glazed eyes had never been on the list of desired effects.

It was more likely to be a side effect of something that would set in later.

Biting the insides of his mouth, Harry wrote a message on a spare bit of parchment he found on a desk.

_Professor,_

_I'm scared Tom's been poisoned. For all we know, it could very well be nothing. But I'd feel safer if you can come as soon as possible and check on him. Daphne slipped something in his tea. His drink had been spiked – either deliberately or accidentally…_

_ I hope Tom hasn't drunk what was meant for me. The only information I can provide you right now is that it's tasteless; Tom said so. But it might also be colourless – I do not know. Otherwise, Tom surely would have noticed. _

_Get back to me,_

_Harry. _

A mile from satisfaction, all he could do was hold his fire and wait for Snape to reply. In the meantime, he might as well be beside Tom in the case that something _did_ happen.

A million thoughts flooding his clogged mind, Harry made his way out of the room.

He dearly hoped that the tea had not been meant for him. Or else the results could be fatal if Daphne's death threats were to be taken seriously. Not to mention, now that he thought about it, Daphne had been so jumpy, so apprehensive, when Harry found her previously.

But surely, Daphne would not be so foolish as to think that he would drink the tea after he had seen the poison being snuck into it –

Harry came to a dead halt as he rounded an empty corridor.

Daphne Greengrass had clearly been lying in wait for him to stumble across her.

"Well, alone in a corridor and utterly defenceless, are we?" Daphne whispered, triumph lacing her girlish voice. She took a menacing step forward, wand raised in the trademark signal of an upcoming duel.

"Sure you want to duel?" Harry challenged, bluntly. "Last time, if I recall correctly, you made a fool of yourself. Since I too have a wand, I would not exactly call myself defenceless."

He made no move to retrieve it, calm with the fact that he could best her in any condition.

"Tragically – for you, it will be different this time," Daphne told him.

As if on cue, a movement in the darkness caught Harry's eye. Like leaving behind the fog that once shrouded around him like a shawl, the figure stepped forward imperiously.

Harry's breath hitched as he drank in the familiar – and yet utterly cold – blue orbs. It was contradictory, he knew, but he could not think of any other ways to describe it except to say that it was both familiar and alien simultaneously.

He felt like the figure in front of him was a stranger. The equally cruel, sadistic twist of the lips that triggered goosebumps across his arms had never once been directed at him until now.

Never before had he felt so scared of the young wizard. He had never been made to feel like cornered prey by the figure. Of course, he knew the brutal measures that the young wizard was capable of, but he had never been the target.

This time, he had no doubts about who was the predator and who was the prey.

Harry had been confident – but the sureness fell, leaking away like water droplets between desperate fingers, when the direness of the situation hit him.

Almost stumbling backwards, Harry seized his wand from his sleeve and stood his ground, shaking like a leaf in shock.

If it was purely him against Daphne, Harry had no misgivings. He would win, easy as pie. He could bring her down without breaking a sweat if she had been alone… and even if she did somehow find a random ally, it still would have been effortless work.

Except the circumstances caught him entirely by surprise. Greengrass was right. Things would be different.

This wasn't good.

Wasn't good at all.

Not for him.

He jerked his wand at Daphne's companion. "What have you _done_ to him?" he snarled, revealing teeth and all. "I swear if you've poisoned him, I'll –" An intense sensation of unease had gripped his heart in a death hold.

"You will do what?" Daphne inquired sweetly.

The sickly sugary tone hurt his eardrums.

"I will reward you with the slowest, most painful death you have ever imagined," Harry growled. "You can get a personal dose of the special Cruciatus Curse – course, I've never had a taste for such inhumane tasks but my pity is only reserved for those who _are_ human."

"Indeed?"

Harry felt ice freeze in his veins. The question had not been asked by Daphne but Tom. Oh, Tom, oh Merlin. The tone was velvety, playful, charismatic… every quality desirable.

It was the kind that Tom frequently employed for prey.

For those helpless little creatures that he intended to rip into pieces. Either mentally or physically or both.

"Riddle," Harry muttered, through gritted teeth. To his relief, none of the concern or panic showed. "Get over here before I come and get you myself." He had hoped, hoped with all his will, that the words would have at least some sort of effect on Tom.

But they didn't.

Tom's frontier remained as icy as ever, eyes sparkling with bloodlust and marginally narrowed by the insolence of the command. Truthfully, he looked like just like one of those statues that had all the glory and beauty of the century carved on their faces – but actually was made entirely out of stone.

"Hmm… I was about to say that myself," Tom mused, pitch as light as ever, somehow contrasting sharply with the grimness of Harry's position.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Harry glanced around, noting the silence of the corridors and the muting charms in place and decided he had a pretty good idea himself of what they meant.

"You see, Harry, Daphne would like to take you some place else."

Then, Harry whipped his wand in front of him with force, just in time to protect himself.

All hell broke lose.

* * *

**It's pretty obvious something happened to Tom.**

**Can anyone guess what?**

**I'd love to hear what you think! Cheers!**


	27. Of Sadism and Sadness

**Disclaimer: My first name is not Joanne.**

**Ah, I hope it's a lovely surprise update! I couldn't well leave you all in suspense, could I? I wrote as fast as I could! **

**Reviews are welcome!**

**Warning: A little bit of violence at the end.**

* * *

_He jerked his wand at Daphne's companion. "What have you done to him?" he snarled, revealing teeth and all. "I swear if you've poisoned him, I'll –" An intense sensation of unease had gripped his heart in a death hold._

_"You will do what?" Daphne inquired sweetly._

_The sickly sugary tone hurt his eardrums._

_"I will reward you with the slowest, most painful death you have ever imagined," Harry growled. "You can get a personal dose of the special Cruciatus Curse – course, I've never had a taste for such inhumane tasks but my pity is only reserved for those who are human."_

_"Indeed?"_

_Harry felt ice freeze in his veins. The question had not been asked by Daphne but Tom. Oh, Tom, oh Merlin. The tone was velvety, playful, charismatic… every quality desirable._

_It was the kind that Tom frequently employed for prey._

_For those helpless little creatures that he intended to rip into pieces. Either mentally or physically or both._

_"Riddle," Harry muttered, through gritted teeth. To his relief, none of the concern or panic showed. "Get over here before I come and get you myself." He had hoped, hoped with all his will, that the words would have at least some sort of effect on Tom._

_But they didn't. _

_Tom's frontier remained as icy as ever, eyes sparkling with bloodlust and marginally narrowed by the insolence of the command. Truthfully, he looked like just like one of those statues that had all the glory and beauty of the century carved on their faces – but actually was made entirely out of stone._

_"Hmm… I was about to say that myself," Tom mused, pitch as light as ever, somehow contrasting sharply with the grimness of Harry's position._

_"What is that supposed to mean?" Harry glanced around, noting the silence of the corridors and the muting charms in place and decided he had a pretty good idea himself of what they meant._

_"You see, Harry, Daphne would like to take you some place else."_

_Then, Harry whipped his wand in front of him with force, just in time to protect himself._

_All hell broke lose._

* * *

A stream of venomous vipers plunged at Harry, gliding through the air like silver wisps of smoke from the wand tip, mouths widening to reveal horrifying sets of fangs. Deadly but beautiful.

They shot like arrows towards him.

Instinctively, his wand sprung up in his palm and flashed upwards, slicing through the first wave of serpents. They crumpled in mid air, one by one, and withered like dry flowers. It was wraithlike, ethereal.

Truly an incredible manipulation of magic.

… But more for show than anything else.

That was how Harry realised Tom was toying with him, not focused on bringing him down as swiftly as possible but determined to savour the moment through unhurried means; inflicting small wounds.

If it had been anyone else, _anyone_ but a version of the Dark Lord, Harry would have appreciated the fact. It would have provided him with more time to hinder and overwhelm the opponent.

Except, in this instant, he never entertained the thought of holding up long in the duel; the odds were not in his favour.

For Merlin's sake, it was _Tom_.

Tom Riddle.

Most competent sorcerer of his time and mastermind of the latest century.

Notoriously powerful. Famous for his sadism. Known for executing his tasks with panache – without missing a beat.

As far as Harry knew, there had been no trace of a case in history where the young Slytherin Heir had failed to destroy an adversary he set his mind to.

Perhaps it was unfair to plaintively say Harry had given up.

He hadn't yet surrendered himself to the likelihood of losing.

Not at all.

Just because he stood little to no chance when facing Riddle head-on did not mean he could not take the alternate of fleeing.

Turning tail and fleeing. It was what he intended to do as soon as he was shown the sliver of a chance; there was no wiser option. It would be suicidal – figuratively, of course – to barge eagerly into a painful, drawn-out struggle with the future Dark Lord.

All he had to do was try keep up with the curses speeding his way and prevail until a diversion could be created.

Harry leapt to the side in an attempt to evade a curse, simultaneously murmuring a charm so that a shield launched up like armour around him, effectively coating him in a globe of glowing blue light.

For now, exchanging a few blows with Riddle was better than being captured and held vulnerable against the cruel nature of whatever rubbish Daphne's mind could conjure up.

"Stupefy," Harry shouted, as several more spells exploded across his shield, sending up great ripples of stray magic. "Reducto."

He watched with narrowed eyes as his retaliation, somewhat mild compared to those fired by the Slytherin Heir, fell uselessly to the ground before they even approached within one metre of the man.

"Harry, Harry," Tom tutted, face morphed into a compassionate expression, "surely you cannot be going easy on me? Do honour me with proper enchantments… outside the pathetic things they teach at Hogwarts, will you?"

_Fine – _if Tom was asking for it, then he would be a fool to deny him_._

Harry directed an eruption at the wall behind Tom, barely blinking as stones were blasted out, creating a wide dent; the large chunks of plaster and concrete sailed through the air, gorging deep gashes in the wooden floor where they landed.

The tremendous force blew all his hair back, and he was vaguely surprised to see Tom standing, unaffected, in the midst of all the unleashed chaos.

"Very admirable."

His head jerked up in hatred at the source of the feminine voice. He had all but forgotten Greengrass, with the imminent danger of Tom looming in the distance, not far off.

Daphne approached him, repeating, "Very, very admirable –"

"Yes, yes," Harry replied, with an impressively realistic hint of impatience in his tone. "You've already said that."

"Yes, but your performance pales in comparison to Tom's," Daphne smirked triumphantly, looking about as smug as the Cheshire cat.

Harry was suddenly hit with the urge to wipe off her smile, with more extreme methods than those he usually applied. _The female demon… _he had never wished death upon anyone before but she was his first.

If he could get out of this sticky situation and return Tom to normal, he would drag Daphne down a flight of stairs by the hair and use a knife to permanently scar her pretty face… She never failed to appal him with her spiteful streak.

"And yet my performance bests yours any day," Harry quipped lightly.

The blossoming smile faltered at his mere words.

"Careful," Daphne snarled, full of malice. "Careful with that mouth. Heed your current position, Potter, you are at my mercy. And I assure you, I have none for you."

He scoffed scornfully.

"I think a little respect for your superiors is in order."

Harry stared at her with feigned confusion. "Superiors?" he inquired, voice dripping with sardonic sweetness. He pretended to scan the corridor, searchingly. "I don't see any here… I see only inferiors."

"Shut it," Daphne hissed, savagely. "Or I'll slice off your tongue and put it on display in my bedroom."

He doubted she would make good on her threat, and opened his mouth to say so – but closed it again purely on instinct when the features of the young Dark Lord darkened like the clouds patterning the sky on a night of a brewing storm.

"Harry," Tom murmured, lowly, fluid voice cocooning his body like silk. "Must I remind you that you are overstepping your boundaries?"

The eerie resemblance the words held to that of one of their banters amazed Harry; it was exactly the sort of thing Tom said mockingly. The only real difference was that it was uttered with a deadly seriousness this time.

"And who marks out my boundaries?" Harry said defiantly. "You?"

For some strange reason, he felt almost like he was dealing with a provoked Voldemort on one of his bad days.

Tom's eyes pierced him like pinpricks of glacial ice on the middle of Antarctica. The attractively chiselled lips distorted into a destructive expression Harry had only seen directed at Dumbledore on the rare occasions the Slytherin met the old man.

"Your audacity is becoming taxing."

"Ah, but it never seemed to bother you before."

A look, an odd twin of amusement, danced across the psychopath's features, entwining flawlessly with the smell of danger. It could easily have been mistakenly interpreted as amusement, but Harry realised a gathering tempest of wrath lurked behind the harmless facade.

"You know," Tom said softly, enticingly, "Harry, previously when Daphne explained to me the depth of your insolence, I overlooked it. She asked me to teach you a memorable lesson; I refused."

Harry remained motionless, wand tense in his hand and at the ready for an attack.

"Alas, now that I have witnessed the full extent of your insolence, I feel obliged to bestow you the necessary discipline…" A sinister smile pirouetted on Tom's lips, silent as a ghost.

Against Harry's will, a shiver crept down his spine at the sentences that were disconcertingly reminiscent to those that spilled out the mouth of Lord Voldemort when he had discovered the escape of Dumbledore five years ago.

_Dear Merlin…_

A sensation of choking betrayal arose in his throat. Although he knew it wasn't really Tom who was talking, he could not help but feel… let down.

It was ridiculously childish, he knew. Tom didn't mean it. Tom would never mean it.

Harry grasped his wand tighter and without hesitation, lifted it and pointed it straight at the chest of the Slytherin Heir. "Tom," he uttered.

The taste of the name on his tongue was familiar; it came out as a harsh whisper.

"Tom," he repeated, firmly. "Look at me. You don't mean it, you don't mean anything." He said what was on his mind. "Look beside you. It's Daphne Greengrass."

"You cannot trust her, Tom, she poisoned you. Throw off the potion effects, throw it off!" Harry ordered abruptly, his voice rising. "Do it!"

Tom Riddle chuckled.

Rich laughter, bouncing emptily off the walls. Rich, musical and cold. He was _entertained_ by Harry's ludicrous demands, emotions, and the sheer urgency in his tone.

If Harry had been hoping for any personality changes, he could not be more wide of the mark.

"Damn it, Riddle!" he growled. "You are supposed to be powerful! There's no better time to demonstrate your power than the present! How can you let a wretched drop of potion control you, huh?"

Tom heaved a gusty sigh of exasperation as he traded a glance with Daphne. "The boy is in one of his overly sentimental moods."

Hurt. Disappointment. Frustration. Pain. Intense loathing. Daze.

Harry bottled all of the emotions, restraining them to the bottom of his stomach and locking them there. He forced himself into a calm frame of mind, or the closest he could achieve.

Meditating on the callous, impersonal responses of the older Slytherin did not help anything.

But he felt so disillusioned, disheartened by Riddle. The bloody genius was rumoured to be invincible, not destined to be conquered by some hideous excuse of a potion!

It was an unwritten rule between the two of them to cover each other's backs. It had always been that way. Tom had always taken responsibility for his safety, especially when Dumbledore was concerned. Until now.

Despite Harry's efforts of blanking his mind, disappointment lingered like a bittersweet fragrance. The Slytherin Heir was going to hand him over to Daphne. Unwittingly, under the influence of the potion, of course.

God help him.

Tom had gotten himself into one heck of a mess… thus dragging Harry down with him.

Harry gritted his teeth, stilled his hand, which held the wand, from the trembles of frustration, and said to Tom, clearly as ever, "Step back."

Riddle arched an eyebrow. "Put down the wand, Harry," he said tenderly, tone soothing.

Harry's hand did not waver. If anything, he jabbed it bitterly in the general direction of the young Dark Lord. "Drop my wand? So that you can haul me off to wherever you want me? Fat chance."

"It'll make it easier on all of us," Tom said quietly. "Your fate is inevitable. Why not do yourself a favour and spare yourself some grief? You know as well as I do that I can crush you in a duel."

Harry laughed in reply, hysterically. He couldn't control it.

"Come with me," Tom said, "and I'll make sure Daphne doesn't hurt you… too much."

Finally, that sentence was what snapped Harry's muddled mind back into focus.

Without wasting any more of his breath, he broke into action. In quick succession, he cast all the curses that came to mind. _"Sectumsempra! Eviscero! Lancea!"_

None of the attacks connected with the target.

Tom was whirling with a precise, inhuman grace that twirled like a miniature tornado amidst the turmoil, deflecting spell after spell, devoid of any signs of tiredness.

Tom's dark finesse rung in Harry's ears as retaliating curses encircled him, closing in on his shield like a pack of brutish wolves. He had little more than one second to brace himself before the blows crashed full steam into his protection.

Such strength.

Harry gasped involuntarily.

A thin fracture, the size of a snaking line, became visible. A chink in his armour. A weakness that could be exploited.

Riddle seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because in the next instant, ever more curses were raining down on him like jagged forks of lightning.

_"Subsisto," _Harry murmured, eyes fixed intensely ahead. He was hoping his spell could ram into Tom's and block it. And then he fortified the shield a millisecond before the opposing might collided into his spell.

Never had he predicted a time like this could come, when he would be frantically attempting to preserve himself against the brunt of Tom's magic. _Harry versus Tom. _The irony of it was laughable.

Their spells ploughed into each other in mid air, and moulded together, releasing fizzing gold and green sparks. Much to Harry's shock, the combined spells did not set off an explosion – they changed course and raced towards him as one.

If the force of both curses touched his shield, Harry knew the shield would disintegrate. It would not last past the impact. It could not endure it.

His eyes narrowed calculatingly as he started timing. _One, two, three seconds… four seconds._

When the spells were almost atop him, he dove straight for the ground, curling his knees inwards and letting his momentum carry him. He rolled over and onto his feet, just in time to see his shield exploding into nonexistence.

The force of the eruption was massive, throwing him on his back. The breath was knocked out of him upon connecting with the floor with his shoulder blades. He saw stars.

He did nothing but pant and struggle for air for some time before heaving his body, once again, on his unsteady legs. He didn't even want to think the possible consequences if he had not left his shield behind.

A gentle chuckle alerted him of the pleasure Riddle got at his expense. Harry felt a rush of resentment at the quirk of the lips that took his welfare as a joke.

_Damn Tom Riddle to hell. _

He muttered profanity under his breath, and prepared for another round of duelling. Rage prowled within him, clawing at him. He wished he could even the score. For all he knew, he could have been maimed in the explosion – and Tom could not have cared less.

Riddle could go to hell.

Raw power vibrated off his robes, fuelled by his anger. And suddenly, he was whirling, eyes flashing.

He thrust, swished and flicked his wand effortlessly, driving a dangerous rich variety of spells at Tom, wielding the stick as if it was an extension of his arm.

_"Ignis!"_

The carpet behind Tom burst into vivid flames, licking hungrily at his shoes.

_"Forma serpentis!"_

Following the command, the fire rearranged itself into the shape of a snake, and lunged for Tom. Fangs glistened, visible even in the inferno. The serpent coiled around his leg, and Harry swore he was rewarded with a wince from Tom.

The narrow snout crashed downwards, eager to plunge the fiery fangs into the contrasting pale skin of the older Slytherin.

_"Dissipo," _Tom said.

The snake was immediately destroyed, dissipating as a waft of grey smoke.

"Confringo," Harry snapped at Riddle, coloured streaks of lights flew furious from his wand, arm blurring with the speed and fluidity of his movements.

However, Tom would not be caught by surprise again. The spell was repelled without difficulty. The same fate met the rest of the spells that Harry sent his way.

A minute slipped past with the pair trading spells while Daphne stood on the side lines with a fascinated expression. No doubt pleased with herself for spiking the tea.

Two minutes and three minutes soon followed.

Five minutes.

Six minutes.

When the duel reached ten minutes, Harry was decelerating in his movements from exhaustion. Beads of sweat patterned his forehead, and he was questioning himself on how much longer he could continue.

A simple cutting hex spun towards him, and he barely managed to dodge it.

Duelling with the Dark Lord, even a younger version, was draining work… and he could feel himself weighed down with fatigue.

The next bombardment, a pack of three cutting hexes forced Harry into a position of sidestepping the first two and taking the third with his body.

He grimaced as it slashed into his lower thigh.

He was slowing against his own will.

"Expelliarmus." The incantation, coming from Tom, was cool, calm and collected. The Slytherin was pristine in terms of appearance; not a hair out of place nor an upturned collar. It was said with minimal effort – and yet meant the end for Harry.

His wand flew from his hand and went skidding across the floor before hovering again, only to land in Tom's palm. All of a sudden, he felt naked, exposed, without any weaponry.

"Harry," Tom said, "you are as good as _defeated_, why not come with me and accept what is coming to you?" He laid stress delicate stress on the word.

Harry didn't know what to do… but his natural instincts, his weariness, his blind anger, the surge of repulsion at Greengrass, his fear, his pent-up emotions, all spilled over, and he attacked like a cornered animal, somehow evading Tom's quick curse.

His target wasn't Tom, of course. He wanted to kill the root of the problem. Daphne Greengrass. Even the sight of her repugnantly smooth face made him gag back vomit.

One way or another, he managed to bolt forward and hurl himself at the girl, clawing and hissing. All Harry could see was a red hot fury, pulsing through his veins, intent on destroying her by ripping her apart for her appalling deeds.

He grasped her robes and tore at it, moving in frenzy. His hands found themselves on her pale neck, squeezing. A pitiful wheezing sound rewarded him. He pressed harder, meaning only on letting go when the life was one step from being strangled out of her.

Gouging, pulling, kicking, punching.

The next second, Harry felt something hard slam into the side of his face. He was sent to the ground, the world above him a painfully bright blur.

Dazed, he looked up and saw a figure looming threateningly over him.

_"Stupefy."_

_—_0O0—

When he woke, the objects in the room were fuzzy, and it took him almost a minute before he could blink the effects of the stunning curse away. It took him another minute to adjust his eyes to the current location.

The room was dark, very dim, and lit only by a swinging lamp hanging fragilely from the old ceiling.

The unsteady light threw the items lining the walls into view. Shocking. Revolting. Indescribable.  
Harry's first thought, when he took in the hideous sight, was that he was dreaming.

Except all of it seemed so much more real when he recalled the events that had taken place before he had been stupefied. _Wretched potion. Pathetic, love-struck Daphne Greengrass. And a changed Tom._

A variety of diverse devices covered the peeling walls in an eerily orderly pattern. The devices all seemed to be sorted into categories and systematically arranged from the biggest to the smallest.

Along the right side of the wall was a coiled black whip that had to be twice the length of Harry. Next to it were blandly coloured canes, crops and beating implements of a disturbingly wide genre.

Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

It grew greater as he glanced around.

Somewhere in the middle was a gadget that had the appearance of an oversized pair of metal scissors. He recognised it from Muggle books. Tongue Tearer, they called it. It was an instrument designed in the medieval times for the perverted sense of creativity in torture, something spawned by the human mind.

The mouth would be forced open with a device called a mouth opener, and then the iron Tongue Tearer would uncomfortably twitch the tongue with its grippers. Once a firm hold was maintained, the screw would be securely tightened and the victim's tongue would be roughly yanked out.

In a grim bout of humour, he pondered whether Daphne was truly intending to tear his tongue out. He doubted she would be able to hide it from Voldemort – and he also doubted the Dark Lord would be particularly pleased to find his Horcrux mute for life.

It appeared that Voldemort was quite the collector of ancient torture devices. Additionally, the room Harry presently inhabited could only be dabbed the name of torture chamber.

Letting a groan escape from his cracked lips, Harry stumbled to his feet from the ground and lurched like a drunkard towards the door of the room. Why Tom and Daphne left him unguarded, he did not understand…

However, his own question was answered a moment later when the door was wrenched open of its own accord – and Riddle stalked in with Daphne trailing triumphantly behind him.

Harry struggled to control a cringe as the icy blue eyes pinned him like a butterfly. He wasn't afraid of Tom, not really, but the dire situation and the torture chamber was kind of getting on his nerves.

"Harry…"

He stared up defiantly at his name, making a brave attempt to ignore the sorry picture he must make; dark hair mussed and the fine strands flopping over his forehead in disarray and the smudges of dirt on his cheeks.

"Did I ask you to attack Daphne?"

Harry snorted. "No."

"Then, it does make me wonder, why you did…"

He shrugged in an expression of nonchalance. "Call it pleasure purposes. Maybe I relish the bulge of her eyes when she chokes like a female dog under my grip or maybe revenge is irresistible for me –"

_"Crucio."_

Roaring agony rushed through his ears, a shroud of fire enveloping him. Smouldering, searing, scorching, sweltering; roasting him alive. His nerves were aflame, stinging like every patch of skin, every limb…

Harry collapsed on the ground, spine arching in pain, jaws tightly clenched to stop the screams from pushing out of his throat.

It was nothing short of excruciating…

_Merlin… help…_

Tom watched him writhe in anguish dispassionately, seemingly dissatisfied with the result he got. His pale lips unexpectedly quirked upwards – as if he had come to a decision about something – and he turned on the pain to full volume. "Crucio."

Harry tried to dig his nails into the floor. Damn Tom and his thirst for shed blood. His head was bursting.

Tom remotely faced him. "Scream."

_No… no… _He knew it was more of an order than anything else, but he would not obey. Perhaps a scream from a raw throat could make the eternal torment end. But, just, no. He could not lose the battle of wills to Tom who was under the effects of the potion. His pride and dignity hung in the balance. He would not scream.

"No?" Tom raised an eyebrow. "You are making it worse for yourself."

"So be it," Harry rasped out, forcing down the silent cries long enough to utter the one sentence. _So be it. So be it. _The words echoed in his ears long after they left his mouth. It was practically like a condemnation.

The Cruciatus Curse continued.

After what seemed like a century, or ten centuries to be exact, Tom halted the spell with a calm flick of the wrist.

Harry rolled over, with hacking coughs, onto his back, and he pressed his burning cheek into the coolness of the stone floor. Through a daze of remaining pain, he faintly heard the light laughter of Daphne.

Triumphant laughter.

Harry didn't know which one was worse: the _absolute agony_ coursing through in his body, or Daphne Greengrass triumphing, or the fact that he had just been _tortured_ by Tom Riddle.

* * *

**Hey, just wondering something random, have any of you heard of the Myers Briggs personality test? Apparently there are sixteen personality types... I'm quite interested in that. For all the tests, I got INTJ. Can anyone tell me what it means? If you've ever done the test, I'd love to know your results! If not, well, maybe you can check it out in your spare time! :)**

**Review, please! **


	28. Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter!**

**Hi, I've been preparing for a science test that my teacher forgot to tell us earlier about and so, could not get back to this story for a few days due to excessive studying... *sigh*. Please excuse the relative lateness. **

**Sierra-A.W, coincidentally I finished writing almost the exact time I received your review. :) So I updated immediately.**

**I want to thank you for all your reviews and the people who have explained what have addressed the subject of INTJs and other personality types.**

**On with the chapter! Oh, one more thing, our little problem will not be resolved until next chapter. ;p**

* * *

Gasping for air between the hoarse coughs, Harry lay in the uncomfortable position, momentarily stunned by the events that had taken place. He struggled to control the quivers that surged through his body in a wild dance.

An aftereffect of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.

It was as though the lingering agony burrowed its way down into his bones. Sure; the torture was over, at least for now, but Harry felt like he had been trampled by a herd of galloping hippogriffs.

God, even his fingers hurt from scratching the floor.

His throat felt raw, as dry as sandpaper; not from screaming but from devouring his screams. And his head throbbed like there was no tomorrow. If he didn't know better, he would say Tom bashed him over the skull with a baton.

Everything ached like mad…

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Daphne Greengrass staring at him with undisguised delight, appearing as though Christmas had arrived early. Her lips were stretched widely in an ecstatic beam.

It was the first time she had ever displayed happiness in front of him. Ah, the sight of her nemesis recoiled on the ground, shoulders trembling from fatigue, must please her so.

Was he twisted for imagining her gloriously gruesome death in such detailed pictures within the walls of his mind? Yes, he must be…

Tom was offhandedly observing his movements in a careless manner, blue orbs narrowed in mild amusement at Harry's efforts of shifting his uncooperative body into a kneeling or crouching position.

Harry's traitorous heart curled upon itself sorely at Tom's apparent lack of concern to whether he lived or died.

And he inwardly admonished himself vehemently.

_You idiot, that bastard standing there is not Tom Riddle. He will not respond to you while he remains under the effects of the potion. And until he snaps out of it, you'll just have to endure the pain! Deal with it!_

Harry stopped in the middle of his thoughts, startled by the viciousness. _What on earth happened to thinking positively about rainbows and unicorns?_

Still, it was difficult not to become a pessimist overnight when one's closest companion turned on them with knives at the ready and an unhealthy appetite for fresh blood.

"Harry," Tom said gently, irises flickering with mirth. "Tell me, did it hurt?"

_What is he supposed to say? 'I feel like a fur ball you vomited up, thank you for your concern'? Or something more along the lines of, 'Nothing hurts more than your ugly face in my line of sight'?_

The first was not fitting and the second would not go down well with Tom – so Harry snapped out, "What do _you_ think?"

The ghost of a smile graced his features, and Riddle smirked in a satisfied manner at the reply he received. "Ah, so it _did_ affect you; I feared for a minute that my talent for the Cruciatus dramatically decreased… but then again, you've never been much of a screamer."

There is was again, the casual recount of Harry's torture and humiliation, brandished about so carelessly. Did Tom not see that it hurt him; did he not sense each syllable stabbing at where it hurt most?

Oh, of course Tom knew. How could he not?

Tom was a sadist, someone who thrived on other people's angst. Like a shark, he was always the first to know when a prey was wounded, when the scent of blood was released into the water.

The Slytherin Heir circled him calmly, pale neck craned in a gesture of curiosity as he stepped back to admire his own handiwork, sweeping his eyes over the signs of weariness, the scratches on Harry's skin, the occasional twitches that still seized his body…

Harry shuddered involuntarily.

He had never considered himself prey… but Tom, Tom who was at the top of the food chain, would.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when Riddle threw a playful smile in Daphne's general direction, as if encouraging her to put in a few words for Harry.

Daphne eagerly obliged.

"So stubborn," she reprimanded mockingly, glee manifesting in her soft voice. "If you wanted Tom to stop, you ought to have simply… _asked_."

The delicate stress laid on the word implied that Daphne actually meant _'begged'._

"We all know you are no coward," Daphne continued smugly, "but you really should swallow some of your Gryffindor pride."

By now, Harry had gotten into a kneeling position. "You speak of it as though Slytherins have _no_ pride. _But_ _then again_, I suppose that is true for a few individuals."

He felt a sense of vicious achievement when jaws tightened in response to his gibe; he was gratified that he could boast of the talent of annoying Daphne even if she went to the ends of the earth to ignore him.

"You think you're so intelligent, _don't_ you, Potter?" Daphne asked. "A cut above the rest of us, no?"

A sneer was brought forth to his lips by that comment. "_Actually_," he dryly corrected, "I'm not as arrogant as you believe; I think of my intelligence as that of the average person's… It's simply that _your_ intelligence, in my opinion, is not up to scratch."

A pleasing sound of grinding teeth greeted his ears.

"I'll have you know, Potter, that my –"

"_I'll_ have _you_ know," he remarked quietly, "you are _dazzlingly _unintelligent… not to mention _cowardly_, for a girl the Dark Lord chose as his apprentice. It's magical, really."

Harry barely registered the expression of fury flitting over her face; he only realised the proximity between him and Daphne when –

_Crack._

The force of the slap threw his head to the side and rocked his balance, and a burning sting immediately blossomed across his cheek in the mark of an angry handprint. He gaped at her in, not thunderstruck disbelief exactly, but something akin to righteous anger.

Daphne had never reacted as violently as this to his snide taunts before… but on the other hand, she was _always_ forced to keep her temper on a tight rein when he was concerned.

Now that she had the chance, Harry knew she would embrace it for all she was worth.

Really, he should have seen it coming… but even then, he would have been taken aback by the sheer strength packed in one blow. She must have been craving for the opportunity to slap him for ages.

As it was, he regained his composure swiftly and arched an eyebrow. "What would your mother say if she sees you now?" he inquired sweetly. "Your behaviour is rather un-ladylike, unbefitting for the heiress of a prized bloodline."

"She would encourage me," Daphne spat.

"I doubt it," Harry replied. "Your assault of me can be counted as treason against the Dark Lord. Sounds so much grimmer when you put it that way, doesn't it?"

He laughed humourlessly. "If she has any care for her daughter's welfare, she would drag her away."

He winced as sharp nails dug into his scalp. His head was forced in an unnatural angle and Daphne leaned ever closer, amber eyes fixed intently on his own.

"Is this a threat?" she whispered, her breath nauseatingly warm on his neck. "Hmm?" Her fingers thumbed his hair almost tenderly. "You're not exactly in the perfect position to threaten me… oh dear."

Harry was making a great effort not to betray his disgust at the contact. He wished nothing more than to thrash her hand away, but, well, the issue of a nearby Tom Riddle had to be taken into account.

"Call it an educated guess."

The fingers jerked back harshly, yanking on his hair so hard that a few strands parted with his scalp forever. His mop of hair was tangled and matted beyond what could be tidied with a comb.

Harry growled softly at the back of his throat.

"You think of yourself too highly," Daphne said, stepping away from him again. "Pride is a vice and humility is a virtue."

"Oh, yes," Harry said acerbically. "Where did you read that? In the Bible?"

The puzzled furrow of the brows was absolutely priceless.

"Too bad I'm an atheist."

Daphne seemed reluctant to surround herself with alien words to do with Muggle religion and she instantly backed out of the unfamiliar territory by changing the subject. "What makes you so sure that the Dark Lord will worry himself over a boy as unworthy as your ungrateful self?"

"Because while his other apprentice happens to disappoint him." His mouth of knives did not even have to hesitate before delivering the most suitable retort.

Daphne appeared furious at his retort, biting her lips in anger. "Tom…" she said, seeming to address something lurking behind Harry.

It must have been a demand for his sharp tongue to be punished, because before he knew it, a leg lashed out and clipped his shoulder punitively, pummelling him back onto the floor.

He uttered a short yelp of pain as he was flipped over on his back.

A shoe promptly jammed his windpipe, as he gazed into the emotionless eyes of Tom Riddle. The Slytherin Heir seemed to loom like a mountain over him, trapping him underneath. "Watch your lip."

The tone implied there would be a hell to pay if he didn't.

"I cannot," Harry muttered, albeit huskily thanks to the foot on his neck. "In case you haven't noticed –"

The foot pressed harder, applying further pressure to cut off his air supply. "You can shut up now, Harry," Tom murmured darkly. "I will ask you when I want your opinion."

Begrudgingly, Harry did as he was told, as so to earn back his precious oxygen before it ran out and he was left gasping like a fish out of water.

"Thank you, Tom," Daphne crooned. "You're awfully sweet."

Ironically, Harry failed to comprehend why Tom was praised of sweetness when all he had done was driving a close acquaintance to the ground. "I hope your dentist warned you that he's terrible for your teeth," he muttered under his breath.

"As I was saying before," Daphne resumed, shooting Harry a glare, "the Dark Lord will most likely not concern himself over what happens to you as long as you're still breathing by the end of it…"

Harry returned the dirty look with triple the force.

"… Either way, the Dark Lord cannot protect his feeble little apprentice while he is two thousand miles away, consulting and drinking with vampire royalty."

Her voice was saturated with keen malice, a sickening saccharine whisper.

"So you are deliberately flouting the rules of the Dark Lord, treading all over his desires like they are worth no more than codswallop?" Harry deadpanned. "You do know the consequences, don't you?"

"Hah." Daphne let out a mild titter of laughter. "Of course I do."

"Good. Just checking." He nodded with a mockingly knowing tilt in the brows. "So you have a death wish. No one who crosses the Dark Lord lives to tell the tale."

"Not necessarily." Daphne sounded so victorious, so delighted with herself, that Harry was struck by a sensation of curiosity.

A question must have been printed on his face, because Daphne swiftly picked up her explanation.

"I have already successfully obliviated you once. So surely it can be done again. A swish of the wand to obliterate all traces of your grief… easy as pie. Tom can heal nearly as effectively as he can hurt; you will look as good as new on the _surface_."

Harry felt hotness pitch through his body, followed by freezing coldness. Anxiety brimmed and spilled over. Apprehension was awakened in the pits of his stomach. It deepened to become a tingling sense of fresh fear.

The previous assurance that Daphne dared not damage him to the extreme was reduced to dust sprinkles.

He had initially taken for granted that the prospect of suffering the Dark Lord's displeasure would keep the savage beast within Greengrass at bay.

Voldemort had been like a breastplate for him, a protective covering, as much as Harry loathed admitting it. The wizard who was a truly terrifying sight to behold, with redness leaking into his cold eyes when he was angry, had been the only thing standing between him and Daphne.

That protection had just been speared into fragments by Daphne's urgent, insane need for vengeance.

It was clear in his mind that Voldemort would eventually discover the horrid truth, no matter to what lengths Daphne attempted to disguise it.

But it wouldn't do any good for him now.

Daphne was blind to her rage. Illogical. Frantic. She would pay the price for harming him, of course, but it would be too late to undo whatever she did to him. Harry _wished_ she would come to her senses.

Stupid people were a danger to both themselves and others.

With Tom under her control, she could afflict enough distress to make him slip into insanity, he was ready to bet.

The question at hand _now_ was how long he could last. And whether it would be long enough for rescue to arrive.

Harry abruptly realised that Daphne had darted towards the torture instruments and was fingering the blades that lined the walls. A smile played on her lips, as though she was daydreaming about running it through him.

Her hand had started to tenderly stroke the leather strands on a peculiar thing with nine throngs of plaited rawhide, known for inflicting parallel wounds.

Cat o' nine tails.

He inwardly gulped under Tom's shoe. "Earth to Daphne," he said coolly, taking care to feign a bored front. "If you are missing human contact, maybe using belts and crops is not a good alternative."

"Tom…" Daphne looked beseechingly at the Slytherin Heir, fluttering her dark eyelashes which resembled black butterfly wings. "Harry is being rude."

She pouted in a childish manner, one which repulsed Harry, but Tom seemed only to register her discontentment.

Riddle's blue eyes iced over. And immediately, the atmosphere in the chamber dropped a couple of degrees. "Perhaps he has yet to learn his lesson." He sent a reassuring, sincerely charismatic smile towards Daphne.

"I want you to chasten him," Daphne said, her voice rising in pitch at the request. "Please, Tom, do it for me. I cannot _bear_ his insults."

She threw her arms in emphasis. "It is such a pity to let this room go unused. Look at the whips. They seem so… fitting."

Tom nodded agreeably. "Which one catches your attention… darling?"

Harry gagged in alarm at the endearment and he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Tom had directed it at Greengrass. _Tom. Daphne. Tom. Daphne. Darling?! Maybe Sugarplum will be next!_

Then he got it.

Love potion.

It was so obvious.

How he could have been so foolish as to not realise, he did not know. Everything matched up; Tom uncharacteristically trying to amuse Daphne, the torture, the intolerance for rudeness directed at Daphne. Dear God.

His mind spun wildly.

What love potion was strong enough to conquer Tom? Not any normal concoction, surely? Riddle, a heartless psychopath, would never bend to any _random_ brew. It had to be something powerful, stronger than anything else.

Amortentia?

It was the most powerful love potion in the world, inducing a great infatuation or obsession in the drinker. Harry doubted anything less could capture Tom Riddle.

But then again, it had a distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen, and steam was said to rise from it in distinctive spirals. There was no possible way that Amortentia could have been undiscovered. Besides, it had a different aroma for everyone who smelled it, reminding each person of the things they found most attractive.

It was simply impossible that Tom would fall for it.

His flood of whirling thoughts was put to a sudden halt when Daphne reached for a heavy rattan cane, yanked it from the wall, and offered it eagerly to Tom, who took it up in one hand and swung it to familiarise himself with the weight.

Harry's heart sank to the depth of his stomach.

Perhaps he could stall for time – but a few minutes was not going to make much of a difference if Daphne intended to have him clinging onto life by a thread. His eyes scanned the wall and a dreadful variety of possibilities greeted him.

If Daphne was as creative as she appeared, then he was in trouble.

"Come here, Harry," Tom purred silkily, giving the cane another test swish. "We'll have a smashing good time, literally, I promise. It won't hurt much. Come on, get up on those legs and come _here_."

Instead, he opted to make another effort at shaking Tom out from under the effects.

"Tom, you are not in your right mind," he said, sounding as reasonable as he could. "Put down the cane… and just listen to me."

The cane remained in Tom's hand, lifted as high as ever, like a sentence about to come plummeting.

Giving a light sigh, Harry continued without waiting for a response, "What you do today, I won't count against you, since you're not yourself, but you _will_ regret it. _Look_ at her, Tom, no, she's not the love of your life. _Truly look."_

The Slytherin's face had lost its good humour and was steeled in a cold mask. "I've been lenient with you – perhaps too lenient – in the past. But it has come to my attention that you are abusing my lenience."

"Please, Tom –"

"Remove your robes and place your palms against this wall," Tom said, in a soft feigned voice of concern. "Come, Harry, quickly, or else I will be forced to dole out additional lashes. None of us wish to see that happen. Come along."

The kindly tone that the young Dark Lord had taken when he was preparing to slice open his flesh inspired Harry to break into a furious outburst, "Listen carefully, you irritating snake –!"

"I will count to three, and if you do not start moving by three, I will make you wish you have never been born."

**…**

Harry writhed under that damned spell which held him in place, in that vulnerable prostrate position, where he was terribly exposed to each cutting stroke. Through a haze of pain and unstoppable tears that stung his eyes, he glared balefully up at the figure of Tom Riddle.

He felt the gentle touch of the cane, followed by a swish, and then the harsh moment of contact.  
_Thwack._

He gave a sharp intake of breath, and bit down on his lip so hard that blood flowed freely into his mouth. He spat it out weakly at Tom's shoes.

_Thwack._

The Slytherin Heir allowed the pain time to arise before distributing the next lash. A deliberate pause, calculated for the ache to take effect. It mounted up with each hit.

His dirtied robes were discarded on the floor, on the same spot where Tom had dumped them after practically ripping them from his frame.

He had tried to fight; he did, with wandless magic before Tom leashed him to the table. Tragically, all his spells had been rebuffed.

_Thwack._

A small hiss escaped his throat. His fingers grappled desperately at the wooden table on which he lay flat.

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Tom had decided it was easier to retrain him on a table than for him to stand on his own feet. Otherwise Harry would likely have collapsed half an hour ago. It would have been beyond embarrassing.

_Thwack._

He managed to grit out a mocking smile through the stress, directing it at Tom. "Are you tired yet, from swinging that thing with such force?" he inquired, inserting as much humour in his drained voice as he could. "You've been at it for more than two hours."

"Oh, never mind me," Tom replied dispassionately, taking aim again, eyes narrowed in concentration – _thwack. _"I've had rests."

That much was true.

The caning meted out was taking longer than Harry could ever have imagined, but there were short breaks in between each twenty minutes or so. While it was a relief to lay his face on the cool wood, it seemed all the more awful when Tom picked up where he had left off.

Unhurried and measured torture, drawn out over a lengthy period of time.

Exactly what Daphne wanted.

Daphne Greengrass. Harry repressed a flush at the humiliation of her witnessing his weakness. When he got out of this, he was going to hunt her down and murder her.

Her amber eyes, brimming with delight, never left his body. Her lips quirked up as soon as the cane connected with him with a particularly loud crack. She wore an expression that normal people wore when they were watching an amusing comedy unfold.

One time, Tom had actually dropped the cane and suggested that Daphne joined him for a short meal in the kitchens before returning. Greengrass had implied heavily that she would much rather stay and observe his flesh slashed into ribbons.

Seriously, though, Harry did not know how much longer he could take this until he slipped into unconsciousness. He felt faint, and the world was tilting dangerously under his nose.

_Thwack… thwack…_

His body convulsed.

He could stand it for one hour… but two hours of being thrashed was a little too much. Not to mention the Cruciatus Curses that Daphne occasionally tossed at him while he was busy controlling his screams.

She was bored with his silence. She craved excitement. Namely, him howling for her godly mercy.

The second hour, in a way, was marginally better than the first. For one, the pain was numbed in areas where the nerves had been attacked too much – unlike the agony that had rushed through him at the very first stroke.

He did not even have to look back to know that his shirt and pants, which had initially been white and black, were soaked to the last thread with his blood. Beneath the fabric, there was bound to be criss-crossing, bruising patterns of deep crimson welts that had no right to be as severe as they were.

If left untreated, they would be infected.

Swallowing his pride, he turned his neck, cringing from the strain it put on his wounds, to face Tom. "Please," he croaked. "Seriously. Stop it."

An immensely strange look flittered across Riddle's expression at the appeal, his unreadable poker face crumpling for a brief while. Harry could not catch the meaning. A second later, it was gone.

"Beg," Tom stated mercilessly, cold exterior back in place.

Instead, Harry attempted every other method he had in his sleeve; reasoning, explaining, shouting with what little energy he had left.

Nothing worked.

Finally, he begged.

It was an act of self-preservation, a stall for time before he fell unconscious, more than anything else. He choked down the words of anger which clogged his throat, and forced up the bile-like pleads.

"… leave me alone, Tom, just for a while."

Riddle smirked at Daphne. "Happy?" he asked, tone becoming swiftly charismatic. "I got him to grovel at last. Who knew it could be so difficult?"

Daphne laughed, an empty sound echoing off the walls, in response. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Harry. "Tom told you to beg… but he never said he'd listen." A glint of pleasure in her eye. "Crucio."

Harry could only gulp one last breath of air before darkness shrouded him and blankness enclosed upon everything.

* * *

**Keep your reviews up while I work on the next chapter! Cheers!**


	29. Thy Art of Lying White Lies

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**Hey! New update - and it is the longest chapter I have written in quite a while; hope it meets your expectations! Sorry to those who were bored by the Harry angst. Just bear with me for a while; I promise it ends at the beginning of this chapter. :)**

**I was pleasantly surprised by your reviews! 63! Honestly, that's, like, more than any other chapter in both Ice Crux ****_and_**** Dawn Crux! Hooray! ****_Please_**** keep it up!**

**Before we begin, I would just like to impart with the message: things are not as they seem.  
As cheesy as it sounds, it is probably true. One more thing, one of the reviewers were so close to guessing what would happen that it simply ****_amazed_**** me. Phew, you should receive an award for such great predictions. ;p As not to betray the plot, I will not name the person.**

* * *

Timeless eternity…

Precious hours must have stolen by, ticking gently like his rapid heartbeats, thrumming against his chest in smooth rhythms.

It felt as if he was underwater, his limbs disobedient to his commands. Drifting on the crest of the deep blue currents, swimming with it, spiralling under it…

The world surrounding him rocked and twirled, making him feel as though he was riding in one of those spinning teacups in an amusement park. He was rendered lightheaded and dazed.

At times, he would abruptly be yanked from the velvety embrace of the waves to be hurled ashore at the feet of two figures: Tom and Daphne. That was the worst part. He'd gasp for breath like a fish out of water. Then the agony would come, sheer excruciating pain, racking through his body.

He would writhe beneath the force for a while…

…before he was dragged back amongst the peaceful azure waters again for a small moment of relief. The sorrowful emotions and the hurt would be blasted back, washed from his frame by the spray of the waters.

The process repeated itself, over and over again, until he thought his head would bleed.

His mind was conjuring up illusions to protect him from the reality… Could this be the beginning of insanity? How much would it take for him to cross the boundaries between sanity and insanity? Surely he could not be going mad…

Relief, pain, relief pain, relief.

– Pain.

"Tom, he looks far too comfortable," Daphne remarked, in the revoltingly feminine voice. There came the rustling of robes, and Harry could sense the female closing in, even with his eyelids firmly closed.

_"Really?"_ It was Tom.

His tone could nearly be considered sarcastic. Harry could just envision the arch of both dark eyebrows accompanying his word.

"Look at him," Daphne said. "He looks half asleep, in that position."

There was a moment of silence. And Harry sensed the cold eyes probing him, examining the cuts carved into his skin, calculating the severity of his injuries. All of this was done merely by observing.

Finally, Tom corrected, "No. He looks half dead."

"That is not much of a shame, I have to say."

"…perhaps not," Riddle responded.

"It is a pity I never got to witness him bawling his eyes out," Daphne continued, with a longing sigh. "But at least I have seen the great spectacle of Potter at the weakest moment of his sorry little life."

The Slytherin Heir did not answer but his jaws tightened marginally.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!" Daphne laughed. It was a hysterical sound, echoing emptily off the walls. "Serves him right, the insufferable twit."

Riddle chuckled mockingly.

"Tom, you have no idea how thankful I am towards you," Daphne said. "You have this…aura that nobody else does… it's breathtakingly amazing. I feel _special_ around you, I mean, I _am_ special, but you make me more conscious of it –"

"And I will _always_ be beside you to make you feel special," Tom interrupted smoothly. "I will watch over you, save you from harm, for as long as you live."

Her face glowed. "Promise?" she breathed.

"Of course."

Daphne crooned in delight. "I'm touched, Tom." She slipped her hand in his keenly. Then, leaning mischievously against his shoulder, she whispered into his ear, "Let's break Harry's arms before the Dark Lord comes back." She winked.

For the first time, Tom hesitated, a dark cloud drifting over his features. "It would be best not to overdo it at once, Daphne." He had tucked his wand away under his sleeve, signalling the finish. "You've had hours of fun with him, today. It doesn't do to damage your toys too much in one go."

Daphne pouted. "Please, Tom," she pleaded. "It's not as if we are busy with anything else."

"You can continue tomorrow. It is unlikely the Dark Lord will be back within this week at all; you have plenty of time."

"Tom, you do not understand how long I have waited for this opportunity," Daphne answered resolutely. "I must make the most of it; savour every minute like it's the last. I may not get this chance again, ever. I must do some _permanent_ damage, you know, as a souvenir."

_"Occillo!"_ Her ringing cry pierced Harry's skull.

Harry's eyes flew open to reveal haunted green orbs. The spell, leaving a silvery trail in its wake, sped towards him like a shooting star.

Suddenly, Tom snapped his wand out too, as fast as lightning, a spell automatically springing to his lips – and Harry thought that the older Slytherin would curse him, but the incantation seemed to die on his lips.

Harry could not heave himself from the line of fire in time; it only took one second for his kneecap to shatter. He knew it was fractured as soon as his nerves registered the pain. The kneecap was smashed completely, and suddenly, his leg was useless.

A hollow scream, rasped out from a throat as dry as the Sahara Desert.

_"Occillo."_

His fingers, the bones beneath the skin, broke immediately following the incantation. His mouth widened unnaturally in an 'O', and another scream escaped, long and withdrawn and utterly devoid of hope.

Tom's eyes glowed an electric blue, displaying an unreadable, raw emotion and oddly, he stiffened.

Out of the blue, a suffocating, stiflingly powerful fragrance wafted into the atmosphere, a characteristic combination of dark magic and undiluted rage. It peeled from the walls and from the ceiling – and within a few seconds, the entire chamber was gripped in the tentacles of an unknown force.

So dark, strong, omnipotent and vibrant.

And incensed.

Instinctively, Daphne lowered her wand, and she turned helplessly to Tom, who stood rigid as a plank, face wiped of emotions. "What is it?" she whispered, fear imprinted on every feature at the Slytherin's lack of response.

"He's here."

All it required was two words for the message to be driven home. Daphne flinched, and all of a sudden, the severity of her actions seemed to dawn upon her.

Everything stopped. Even the walls appeared to be holding their breaths in unison. All came to an end. The one thing that lasted unrelentingly through the silent pandemonium was the frantic heartbeats.

"Tom," Daphne spoke softly, urgently, "we can hide the evidence, hide Harry, clean the blood, and restore the chamber to its previous –"

"It's too late now," Tom said shortly, frostily.

"But the Dark Lord is not here yet!" Her voice rose higher in her nervousness. "He'll be here any minute – and he'll see Potter's sculpted carcass!"

"The Dark Lord already knows," Tom said. "And Harry is not dead. Pray that the fact he is alive will work to your favour."

The tantalising darkness vibrated through the air, striking what might have been a haunting tune on the strings of an invisible harp. Deadly, venomous, cold as stone.

The metal door to the torture chamber flew off its hinges, forcing Daphne to dart out of its way as it crashed soundly into the opposite wall, sending fragments of plaster into the air.

In strode Voldemort, wand brandished and eyes glistening with full strength danger, leashed rage flitting around him like a whip. His narrowed pupils widened in mild surprise at the nauseatingly strong odour of blood.

His head twisted in a ninety degrees angle and he buried his gaze in his disgraced female apprentice, who fell to her knees in a series of begging for mercy and forgiveness.

Behind the Dark Lord, another person was approaching, stalking out of the gloom, black robes billowing like bat wings.

Severus Snape.

**...**

Severus Snape was beyond concerned as he hurried after the fluttering cloak of the Dark Lord.

As if he had not been troubled _enough_ when he first uncovered the message Potter had left in his workroom… As soon as he read it he had developed suspicions of what had been planted in the tea of the newly recruited Death Eater, Riddle.

After all, _he_ had been the one to design it upon the insistent orders of the Dark Lord.

The concoction _itself_ was plain, simple and relatively harmless, brewed at the cost of the least expensive ingredients in the storage room.

But, Merlin, it was _effective_.

It was a Dulling Beverage.

As far as he knew, it worked every time; no matter what … The purpose of the potion was straightforward and uncomplicated. When matched with another potion, the Dulling Beverage was capable of dulling the taste, colour and scent of the other concoction so that it became harder to detect, losing some of its characteristic physical signs.

The Dulling Beverage could be lethal if used to disguise the tell-tale hints of a poison.

That was the reason he had been so anxious to discover supplies of Dulling Beverage and Amortentia simultaneously missing from his storage. And then to read Potter's worrying message…

If added correctly, the Dulling Beverage could manipulate the properties of Amortentia, thus creating the one flawless weapon that played the area of the brain which controlled sentiments.

The 'Dulled' Amortentia would dissolve into the drink like a chameleon, tasteless, colourless, and devoid of its distinctive spirals. An admirable trait.

In the past, targets of Amortentia had stood a chance of evading it by reading the indicative traits, but the love potion was unstoppable without a counter potion once it reached the nerve system, acting quickly to modify the target's feelings.

Snape doubted that Riddle would discover it in his drink… but on the other hand, the Dulling Beverage was true to its name; it _dulled_ things, not _vanish_ them.

Still, the fact that no one with the exception of him, the Dark Lord, and the most trusted Death Eaters knew of its existence only worked to the advantage of the deadly talent of concealing it had.

Despite his initial shock, he had done nothing rash, intending to inform Potter when the teen went to dinner.

Since when did a love potion fiasco involving love struck teenagers ever turn out to be anything more than a disaster of broken hearts and wasted time?

It was only when Potter never appeared to dinner that a sensation of unease began prickling at him.

Yet what could he do? Grab his wand and search the estate grounds for Potter in case the boy was hiding up a tree? Send the Death Eaters on a search party?

Noting the Dark Lord of such an insignificant matter while he was discussing important politics with vampires was out of the question.

Snape retired to his office.

One or two hours later when he was in the middle of a tome, to his astonishment, rapid knocks rained demandingly down on his door, with the implication that the door would be blown off its hinges if he did not get it in time.

He was tempted to scoff and order the late visitor away and turn back to his book but fortunately, a tingling little instinct stopped him in his tracks.

It was lucky.

_The Dark Lord_, of all people, loomed forebodingly in the doorway, radiating danger with the intensity that rolled off his posture. A small frown had buried itself between the man's eyebrows, and he appeared more urgent than Snape had ever seen him, the notorious yew wand grasped firmly in one pale hand.

"Tell me, Severus, how long has Harry been missing?"

**...**

Snape kept his distance; the fury was vibrating from the Dark Lord in powerful waves, threatening to drown any who dared to block his path. His face, stretched tightly, was an impassive mask. All the more frightening when one envisioned the toiling emotions behind it.

Severus watched in silent awe, and undeniable anxiety, as Lord Voldemort flung the chamber door brutally aside, hardly batting an eyelid when his female apprentice ducked for cover.

As he, too, followed the Dark Lord into the torture chamber, a sinisterly overpowering stench of blood smacked him in the face.

His heart beat faster, thrashing fiercely against his chest so that he could barely make out Voldemort's movements.

Dear Merlin…

Potter…

Potter's wrists were bound to a post, which perched in the middle of the chamber. His robes had been cast aside, discarded, on the floor in a corner. His shirt had been torn away, and what was left had bloody handprints patterning it.

He slumped unconscious on his knees, held up only by the robes at his wrists.

What used to be his back was now a raw, blood-spattered slab of meat.

Impossible.

Merely a few hours had passed since Snape had last spotted the teen, and all of a sudden he had been manhandled, attacked and mauled until he was almost a mangled, disfigured heap. Merlin, it just was not feasible. How on earth could Potter have made so many enemies?

The Dark Lord, in contrast, seemed to take the scene before him effortlessly into stride – albeit not extremely happily.

In a deadly calm tone, he addressed Daphne, "If I may be so bold to ask; what have you been up to in these past hours? Explain yourself, Daphne… if you are capable, that is. I would love to hear your perspective in this grave matter."

Snape caught on. His own eyes narrowed.

Greengrass was responsible for Potter's current state. It was clear, from the manner which her worthless body trembled like a leaf under the glare.

Severus had always known the female was trouble, rotten to the core with obsession over power and a spiteful streak that constantly desired for revenge.

"My Lord… please forgive me; I can explain…"

The yew wand in his palm gleamed as it shifted and light bounced off the surface.

"Then please do. Explain. Justify yourself. Enlighten me." A humourless, merciless smile with a flash of teeth. "Make it hasty, Daphne, before I lose my temper…" The Dark Lord gestured at Harry. "I find this picture quite unsettling… and it does little to quell my displeasure."

"Potter was insolent, my Lord," Daphne blurted, highly. "He threatened me repeatedly, repeatedly, really. I swear I had no intention of causing permanent damage. Tom just helped me teach him a minor lesson."

"Minor?" Voldemort echoed softly. "You call this 'minor'?"

"No, my Lord, sorry. It was the wrong wording."

The Dark Lord motioned Snape towards Harry quietly, though the indication was pointed. "Get him out of here, Severus. Quickly, to your office. I will be there with you when this set of unfortunate events blows over."

Swiftly, Snape obeyed without a second word or glance; making his way to the passed-out boy, he magically sliced the ropes and gracefully caught Harry as he pitched forward like a ragdoll. A soft groan of pain left his parted lips, and Snape's jaws clenched.

"He is in grave condition, my Lord, and requires immediate medical aid," Snape informed.

"Then see to it!" Voldemort responded sharply. "Do not disappoint me, Severus, or it will be _your_ life that is on the line. I want to see him restored to health as soon as possible. If your skills are not sufficient, I will get rid of you."

"Yes, my Lord." Snape knelt and hoisted the teenager into his arms bridal style, and strode for the door, moving as fast as the circumstances allowed him.

As he walked past the Dark Lord, Snape glimpsed a brief look of concern ghosting over his arctic features, somewhat out of place amidst the harshness. He never once suspected the man whom he served could spare _any_ emotion for _anyone_ besides wrath. It seemed there was a first time for everything.

Riddle, on the other hand, carried a genuinely strange expression that even Snape was incapable of reading. It was complex, like a web, with contrasting reactions running through. It sent shivers down his spine.

And Greengrass, in stark contrast to her master, was the human depiction of a kicked dog, with her tail tucked between her legs and awaiting punishment.

With one last backwards glance, Snape exited the chamber with Harry in his arms, gliding away from the madness.

He left the Dark Lord alone with Riddle and Greengrass.

There had been too much excitement for him that night, but now, he only had one purpose: heal Potter.

**...**

"Tom, you did a rather poor job of looking after your friend," Voldemort murmured sinisterly. "I confess myself saddened by your behaviour. I thought I left you careful instructions as to how to protect him. Did you think it appropriate to ignore them without my permission?"

Riddle inclined his head mockingly. "Obviously, my Lord."

"I had powerful charms placed on Harry that would alert me the moment he is hurt. I once told you about them. It is fortunate that you conveniently forgot, otherwise Harry would be worse off and you, I am afraid, would be in an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Do you comprehend half the consequences your actions brought about?"

"I daresay I do."

"Stand _down_, you insolent –"

_"Make me." _Tom Riddle had set his features in the characteristic portrayal of defiance, tilting his chin until he was somehow staring disdainfully down at the Dark Lord despite being a head shorter.

"Do not wrap yourself in the false belief that I will not curse you, Tom… Do not provoke me…"

A scoff escaped the lips of the Slytherin Heir. "That is rich, my Lord, the sheer concept of you cursing me. I did not take you for a masochist."

Daphne looked like she was struggling with a hybrid of bewilderment and fear.

"Let us put it this way, Tom," Voldemort said. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. I assumed that you, of all people, would agree with the saying."

He extracted a glass flask from his robes. "Severus gave me the counter potion to your current predicament – and I find talking to you while you are under the effects of a love brew rather taxing. I do believe it is high time you drank this."

Instantaneously, a wand had leaped into Tom's palm, and he shifted elegantly into a duelling position. "Surely you did not expect me to comply quietly, my Lord –"

"Tom, please put that away!" Daphne all but shrieked. She sounded terrified, at the idea that her master and her crush would come to blows. Things were whirling out of her control. "For me, Tom, for me; drink it. Listen to the Dark Lord."

Perhaps she thought she would be spared for cooperating.

Tom seemed to be debating over his options.

However, after a length minute, he heeded Daphne's requests and cautiously accepted the flask, tipping the contents warily down his throat.

The droplets were barely swallowed before his hand loosened, and the flask shattered upon meeting the floor with a crack.

Tom glanced up, blue orbs widening in a look that appeared to be realisation mingled with dismay and shock. He stared incredulously at the Dark Lord and his mouth parted unnaturally slowly as he attempted to get out the words that clogged his throat. "Do not tell me that I have actually –"

He was cut off in midsentence; the letters were scarcely out of his mouth, before he seemed to be capable of processing the information, the Dark Lord's hand flew from nowhere, striking viciously across his cheek.

There was an audible snap as his neck twisted forcefully in the other direction.

"You were not in control of your actions, but you are partially to blame," Voldemort hissed. "You ought to have spared your drink half a glance before you drank Amortentia. Harry is suffering due to your idiocy."

Tom did not raise his wand to retaliate.

The Slytherin ring, perched imperiously on Voldemort's middle finger, had slashed deeply into his skin. Daphne was staring with disbelieving eyes at what must have been a blackening bruise blossoming next to his jaws.

"May I see Harry?" he asked quietly.

"Not before he wakes; you have not earned yourself the privilege..." the Dark Lord answered pitilessly. "In the meantime, I will give you the honour of dealing with your girlfriend until you feel bored enough to join me in the hall. Leave her breathing. I intend to punish her myself after you are finished."

**...**

You don't need Harry," Daphne cut in. "He's nothing to you. You _have_ what you want. You have _me_."

"You _disgust_ me, you and your procedures," Tom said starkly. "Are you really so delusional that you hope I would ever burden myself with _love_ for _you?_ You are nothing to me; not even worthwhile for my anger. You might've had the chance to spare yourself, made me overlook you, but it's too late for that now: you've touched and injured my things._"_

"Your things…?"

"Harry."

"I only did what I thought was best for us," Daphne insisted, desperation evident on her expression. "Please don't speak to me like this, Tom."

"I will speak to you how I like." The hatred was pouring like venom out of him. It was in his eyes, tainting the light blue with an ominous shade of black. It was in his tone. The Slytherin Heir was consumed by it.

"Please…" she trailed off. "You _promised _me you would always protect me."

_"Oh?"_ he inquired sweetly. "And when, Daphne, did I make such a promise? _Answer me!"_

She cringed away from him.

"Was it when I was busy going through your delicate suggestions while trying to please you?" Tom sneered, savagely. "Was it when I was unwittingly torturing your enemy, when Harry was writhing under the tip of my _own_ wand?"

"It never occurred to me –"

"Harry tried to tell me that I was not in my right mind…" Tom said. "Not only did I pay no heed but I also cursed him."

In an act of courage, Daphne raised her head and tentatively held his burning gaze. "The boy never does anything considerate for you, Tom. I was merely helping you teach him a lesson on remembering his place –"

"Tell me, _sweetheart_, was it worth it?" Tom inquired cruelly. "Casually slipping a love potion into my drink simply to successfully seduce me, and then taking advantage of my temporary lack of control over my mind to force me afflict pain upon Harry."

"Tom, I never meant to hurt _you," _Daphne cried. "You agreed he needed to be taught respect for his superiors."

"I _agreed_ under _Amortentia!" _he hissed. "You are a fool; you never gave a thought for the price of your actions. But alas, the Dark Lord and I _will_ make you pay."

"I am sorry, I truly am, Tom – you have to believe me!" Daphne said with a pleading note in her voice.

"Oh, I believe you," Tom said coolly. "I believe you are feeling sorry for yourself. You have not a single shred of remorse for the result of your deeds; you even think of them as accomplishments, do you not? Do you feel triumphant at the fact that Harry is currently unconscious in bed and tended by Snape?"

"I don't."

"You lie."

"I beg you, Tom, ask the Dark Lord to… forgive me," Daphne beseeched.

"I cannot persuade him. You are a servant who has been indulged and given a little power in return of her service, but you have abused the privilege." Tom narrowed his eyes. "And even if I could… do you think I would?"

She was pinned to the spot.

"I am tempted to tear you apart in the most excruciating possible manner," Tom said, "and I would do so if I did not know the Dark Lord has something worse in mind for you."

"You _are_ ripping me in half, Tom," Daphne said. "On the inside."

Tom Riddle gave a bitter smile. "Despite my happiness to hear that, I think you deserve far more. Not only do I wish to break your heart, I wish to break all that is precious to you… perhaps starting from your bones."

"You naively assume that purely because you come from a long line of Pureblood witches and wizards, you are naturally of exclusive breeding." He sneered. "I _know_ otherwise."

His yew wand was being nonchalantly twirled between his slender fingers. It was like the calm before the storm. "You bring shame upon your family, you lamentable excuse of a witch." It was uttered nonchalantly, but judging by Daphne's expression, it had left her defences in tatters.

"I can see straight into your mind," he went on. He had folded his arms gracefully across his chest and although he was only a head taller than Daphne, he seemed to tower over her like a great force, staring directly into her amber eyes.

"I have read every dirty secret of your life. I know what you think when you get up in the morning and I know what you dream when you go to bed. But more than that, I can control you. I was always able to do that, to push people and make them do what I desired, make them fight to do my bidding. I killed my own father. I can do the same to you. Now."

"Stop, stop, please stop." Daphne attempted to shut out his words, in vain. "It is enough."

"I do not think it is enough, Daphne. I think it is time you learnt who I am and what I can do. I know you like breaking fingers. That is what happened to Harry, so why don't you find out what it feels like? Why don't you break one of your own?"

"What…?"

"You heard me."

"You are not serious, Tom."

"I am."

Daphne was staring at him with an open expression of disbelief. It was as though she really thought he did not have the heart to impose such a thing upon her.

_Silly girl._

She was wrong – and Tom could not let her run around with the wrong conclusion about him.

He lifted his wand.

It was as if Daphne had been electrocuted. Her whole body shook, her arms jerking as she fought to keep them still. "Tom…" she managed to whisper.

"You ought to have applied that supposedly clever mind of yours before you touched my… friend."

"He wasn't your friend!" Daphne gasped out the sentence, her eyes bulging, her face contorted. Her entire body was fighting against itself and as she stood there she looked as if she was about to topple over.

Tom was still gazing at her, and without wanting to, Daphne took hold of the index finger on her right hand. All the muscles in her arms and shoulders were shuddering from the strain.

"Please…" she whimpered.

There were beads of sweat on her forehead. The large expanse of her face was twisted in anticipation of the pain that was to come and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.  
She was clutching the finger in her right hand, almost like she was clinging onto dear life, and bent it away from the others.

"Tom…" she tried, one last time. "I won't do it again, never again. I promise…"

"Break it!" The command came quick and clear.

Daphne could not stop herself. She had no control. She screamed, highly, as the finger broke and at once, it was as though she had been released from the spell Tom had cast on her.

She pitched forward, falling to her knees, convulsing on the ground. Huge tears rolled down her chin and dropped on the carpet. She was cradling her hand, endeavouring to protect it from any more pain.

Tom stepped over her.

"Did it feel good?" he asked tenderly, voice deceptively gentle. "It felt wonderful, did it not, to do things against your will?"

Greengrass had the nerve to glare balefully at him through her worthless waterworks.

"Now, that was only a practise," he said, relishing the look of dread the female sent in his direction. "How about two more fingers; one for each major crime you committed?"

"No…" she moaned.

"No? Too late now."

"I implore you, for the sake of our mutual devotion, do not do this," she pleaded. "I'll never displease you again."

"You are displeasing me right now," Tom said icily. "Mutual devotion? What part do you not comprehend when I say that I would rather look upon the face of a cockroach than you and that I _do not love you?"_

"I will never do it again…!"

"I know you will not."

"Then please don't –"

"I can talk you through your misconducts if you want, since you adore my voice so much." Tom Riddle paced the room.

"When I denied the existence of any love your imagination conjured up, you sneaked the most powerful dose of love potion in the universe into my tea. It is to my presumption that Harry tried to stop me a second too late."

"On purpose, you _forced_ me to submit to a sentiment I did not previously feel for you. That is your first crime."

"You do feel affection for me… I know it!"

His emotionless expression did not alter at the outburst. "I manipulated you for the sake of my enjoyment – and Harry's. It worked _too_ effectively for my liking."

Daphne looked betrayed. "How can you _not_ be attracted to me?"

"You are not irresistible as you arrogantly think." Tom inhaled deeply. "Your second offence is when you directed me to curse Harry. Go ahead, pluck those fingers out. I can give you the luxury of taking your pick. _Imperio."_

There was another round of fruitless resistance as Daphne struggled against the power of the dark magic to no avail.

Two sickening cracking sounds later, Tom could see that the witch had fractured the little finger and ring finger of her left hand. He hummed in satisfaction. "If you feel like it, let's play a new game."

* * *

**Reviews are most welcome! **


	30. Cold Hard Genius

**Disclaimer: Yep! Mrs Rowling stole Harry Potter from me! Except who will believe me, hmm?**

**My highest of thanks for Mudblood Slytherin and Proud for helping me develop this chapter so wonderfully! She is an utter genius! If you need suggestions for any of your own stories, she is the person to ask. :)**

**Secondly, the person who guessed a large amount of the plot right from last time was jediavatar. ;) Who could have suspected?**

**Last but not least, I have to thank all my splendid reviewers who flood me with a special sort of joy I have not known anywhere else! I read each review at least five times - they're all brilliant! Thank you, my newest reviewer: Sierra-A.W!**

**Now on with the story!**

**Warning: extreme plot twist. **

* * *

"Has the boy made any notable progress overnight, Severus?" his voice was low, calm but it was underlined with rigidity. The tone implied there would be a hell to pay if the results were not up to expectations.

"He has recovered remarkably, my Lord, given the grave condition we discovered him in. I have managed to stitch up his back but scarring most likely will be unavoidable."

"Tom overdid it; he has always been an extremist," the Dark Lord murmured.

"It is advisable to consistently apply the herbal cream to the ridges on his skin," Snape continued. "Or they can become inflamed and irritating."

"Is he still in pain?"

"I have made use of the strongest potions that reduce pain available in our stores, and they seem to be rather effective so far… but Potter may develop immunity against the drugs over time, and they will cease to relief pain for him."

Voldemort clucked softly in approval. "Severus, you have done your part excellently," he appraised. "I have not overestimated you. You will be rewarded as I see fit."

"I thank you for your kind compliments, my Lord…" Snape moved across the room to fetch a thermometer. "If the timing is correct, Potter should wake any minute. However, it is best not to aggravate the invalid unnecessarily; it is vital he regains his strength. I barely stopped a fever from working its way into his system last night."

"Thank you, Severus."

A dismissive kind of silence lingered in the atmosphere, and without Voldemort uttering a single letter, Snape appeared to realise his presence was not welcome any longer.

"A word of warning before I leave, if I may be so bold, my Lord…"

The Dark Lord made an impatient noise of consent, and only then did Snape dare to resume. "My Lord," he said warily, "Potter could well be traumatised by what had occurred… he possibly will be in shock."

"And your point is…?"

"He will be left unhinged, unbalanced and feeling resentful," Snape explained. "Potter was forced to appear weak not only in front of one person but four, including you, my Lord. And he detests being viewed as vulnerable."

"I know all of this. Get to the point, Severus; you were never one to beat around the bush and I admired your trait."

Snape swallowed tensely. "Extend your leniency towards him, my Lord. If he happens to be insolent, blame it on his experiences."

"I appreciate your advice," the Dark Lord said shortly. "Now, if you are finished, I'd like to request some privacy."

"Of course, my Lord. Forgive me."

The Dark Lord barely batted an eyelid as the door closed behind Snape with a click; his attention never once leaving the reclined figure under the white covers. The ghost of a smile graced his lips as said figure stirred, roused from the land of dreams.

**...**

Harry heard muffled noises, gentle and muted. The sounds were incoherent at first but they soon took the form of voices exchanged in a discussion. At times they seemed close, but the next second, they would drift away.

Shrouded in darkness, he had not the faintest idea where he was. He wished he could open his eyes… but it seemed like an impossible feat when his eyelids weighed down so heavily. He could sense covers pressing down on him, and warmth vibrated through his body.

_Perhaps not the torture chamber, then?_

Abruptly, the conversation ended and Harry caught the click of a door, signalling either an entering or exiting person.

Harry shifted marginally.

Immediately, footsteps began advancing in his direction, the floorboards creaking under each movement.

A hand pressed against his forehead and stroked the loose strands aside, taking his temperature and checking for the presence of a fever. The hand was soothingly cold.

"Open your eyes, Harry," a soft voice commanded insistently. "I know you are awake."

He obeyed.

With all the energy he could summon, he cracked open one hefty eyelid at a time. The form looming before him was blurred, but he could make out the pale skin, the twisted lips, ebony hair, and, clearest of all, the hard blue eyes.

Reacting with a speed he did not realise he still possessed, he shoved himself upright on his elbows and tossed his body aside, away from the figure. Wincing as the pain jolted vehemently through his legs, Harry rolled from the bed.

He landed on the floor with a sickening crunch, and lay helplessly on his side.

"Riddle," he snarled. "Where are you hiding Greengrass?"

To his surprise, the hazy figure let out a series of dry chuckles, reached down, scooped him up as though he weighed less than a feather, and deposited him back on the bed.

"Careful with the knee," the man tutted in disapproval. "You will send Severus into a hissy fit for destroying his hard work in merely a few minutes. He spent hours stitching your back, you know."

Harry blinked. _"Voldemort?"_

"The one and only," came the sarcastic reply.

"It's a pleasant surprise to see _you_ for a change."

"You mean because Tom tortured you for the sake of my disgraced apprentice?" Voldemort stared intently at him.

Harry winced at the blunt words. "Never been one for the sensitive use of language, have you, my Lord?"

"I really see no need for it," Voldemort responded airily. "After all, referring to Tom's actions as 'torture' is not blowing things out of proportion."

He arched an eyebrow as if to emphasise his sentence. "I ought to have brought along a mirror for you. You are wrapped in bandages, Harry, from head to toe, and where there are no bandages, there are bruises and welts. You look like a beaten mummy from Ancient Egypt."

"Again, thanks for the sensitivity," Harry said wryly. "I appreciate it –"

"I am sure you do –"

"But I would appreciate it more if you can do me a favour and get me a glass of water," Harry interrupted. "I am feeling rather thirsty at the moment."

Voldemort smirked in good humour. "This is a task unbefitting for a Dark Lord to carry through; I do not go around catering to the whims of naughty little boys who continuously get themselves into sticky places."

"Ha ha, really funny." Harry crossed his arms and glared at the man.

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar," Voldemort tutted, but he was already summoning a cup from halfway across the room. "Aguamenti."

Water immediately filled it, sloshing in a delightful way against the sides, and Harry took it gratefully, downing it in a few gulps.

"I find it strange Snape would devote hours to mending my injuries but not be bothered to wake me and give me water," he commented.

"The human mind often works in peculiar ways."

"Like yours, for example," Harry said. "Somehow, come hell or high waters, you are always gone when you are needed most."

"That sounds immensely like an accusation against me for not looking after you properly," Voldemort remarked casually. "Are you in a mood to pin the blame on others for your misfortune, perhaps?"

Harry furrowed his eyebrows.

"Although I personally understand your disposition perfectly and I empathize with your resentment, I happen to believe you should hold the one who caused you such agony responsible rather than thinking badly of us all."

"Are you suggesting I point the finger at Tom?" Harry sighed. "He cannot be held accountable for his actions; he was not in the right frame of mind."

"Ah, but is it fair for you to suffer at his hands?"

Harry found his mouth dry, and himself unable to think up anything responses.

"It is a high price to pay for the sake of friendship," the Dark Lord continued, appearing like he was either oblivious to or ignoring Harry's discomfort. "Certainly _you_ regard _him_ as a friend, but are the feelings returned?"

Ringing silence.

"You should consider that, Harry, for your own good." Voldemort placed a hand on his shoulder, in a soothing gesture. "Are you willing to subject yourself to being thrashed by Tom like yesterday, purely on the name of friendship?"

"Friendship is important."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Harry grimaced. It sounded downright pathetic. The Dark Lord would sneer at the ridiculousness of it.

"Indeed it is," Voldemort, much to Harry's shock, agreed. "Except you should take every detail into account. If Tom was in _your_ position, do you truly suppose _he_ would forget and forgive? Shake your hand and spare you? Simply because you were 'not in your right mind'?"

The expression of doubt must have shown on his face, because Voldemort cursorily bestowed him a knowing smile.

"He would return each and every shred of pain you gave him… if not three times more."

"I –" Harry was cut off in midsentence by an abrupt change of topic that sent his head spinning.

"I must apologise for my incapability to stop them on time," the Dark Lord said, "but at least I have tidied up the situation. Daphne, for one, had been left alone with Tom for an hour and is now awaiting further punishment. And Tom, after his negligence with you, has also been chastened."

"Chastened?" Harry was all too conscious of the implications behind _Voldemort's_ concept of punishment. It translated directly to torture.

No matter the conditions, it usually was him who ended up getting hurt because Tom Bloody Riddle was invincible. At times he could not help but dislike that fact. But, of course, he never wanted to see the Slytherin Heir wounded, and Voldemort's sinister words set his heart racing.

"Nothing severe. A small cut on his pretty face."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"Does your back hurt? The herbal cream Severus left you is on the table. There are bound to be some areas you cannot reach, and I can assist you with that," the Dark Lord said delicately. "Any time you wish, I can help you apply it."

Harry shuddered at the mere idea of Voldemort touching him, let alone having the Dark Lord intimately tending to his wounds. He cleared his throat in embarrassment, and from the amused look sent in his direction, he could guess that Voldemort was enjoying their little exchange very much.

"Thank you, but no thank you," he muttered, finding the swirly patterns on the ceiling exceedingly interesting all of a sudden; definitely more interesting than the Dark Lord.

"Very well," Voldemort settled. "But the offer is on whenever the effects of the pain-reducing potions wear off."

Harry's eyes narrowed in suspicion. _Why are you being so nice? The colour doesn't suit you, like, at all._

"I have some business to manage, and you need all the rest you can get. I will make reappearance when I have free time on my hands…" Voldemort pushed him down gently under he was resting fully on the pillows again.

"Great, my Lord. I appreciate this… kindly visit." He felt almost inwardly thankful that the Dark Lord was making for the doors.

Just before he left however, Lord Voldemort turned, and a hard sparkle of malice had set in the orbs, Harry could see. "I promise you, Daphne will not be easily let off the hook."

**...**

Harry hazily wrenched his arm from under the covers, not fully conscious and yet aware of the aggravating sensation of fire rolling across his back. It was chafed, and stung like hell. He tried to ignore it.

But found that despite his efforts, it seemed impossible to overlook the throbbing.

Wearily, he opened his eyes in irritation and immediately started at the sight that greeted him. He moved quickly to sit up, only for a hand to press against his shoulder and slow his movements.

His insides twisted uneasily as he gazed into the blue orbs of the future Dark Lord. Tom. Tom Riddle. Suddenly, he felt lightheaded; he really did not want to deal with the Slytherin right now, but Riddle was sitting next to him, so close that he was almost on top of Harry.

The discarded tome that lay lifelessly on the bedside with a dog-eared page suggested that Riddle had waited rather a long while for him to wake up.

"Hi," he said softly.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Somehow, the jolt of pain that ran through his leg contradicted his own reassurance. "Honest."

"Liar," Tom breathed, propping up a pillow for Harry to lean on. "As much as Snape is an admirable brewer, it is undeniable that his healing skills need polishing. The Dark Lord tells me that the welts are going to scar."

The word 'scar' reminded Harry, weirdly, of the cut that Voldemort had talked about. His eyes jerked to Tom's cheek. It was true. There was a small slash extending across his cheekbone, a flaw on the handsome picture.

Tom followed his gaze, and smirked in an offhanded manner. "A souvenir from the Dark Lord."

"I never thought he would lay a finger on his younger self," Harry said.

"According to him, desperate times call for desperate measures," Tom responded. "I assume the idea of one Horcrux mutilating another is desperate in his opinion."

"I guess so."

Tom hummed, contented. "I am glad you are recuperating. It is remarkably boring, to read for hours and hours on end, without your insufferable wit. Of course, I had the honour of torturing Daphne for a while, but all good things must end."

"Wow," Harry said sarcastically. "For a sec, I thought you were actually concerned with my welfare. Turns out it's just your poor bored mind needing stimulation."

"Oh, I've been worried alright, as much as sadistic psychopaths can be, that is." Tom gave him a sharp smile. "I wanted to visit you earlier but the Dark Lord kept me away."

"Is it too much to hope for an apology?" Harry inquired sweetly, batting his eyelids in a canny imitation of Daphne Greengrass. "You owe me at least that."

"Oh, but Harry, you know I cannot do that," Tom said smoothly, still with that infuriating smile dangling on his lips. "An apology would suggest I have something to be feeling sorry for. I am not associated, ever, with the emotion of guilt."

Abruptly, Harry sensed his throat becoming clogged. His heart took a plunge into the depths of his stomach, and he felt nauseous. "Right…" he said quietly. His good mood had been wiped away instantly, by the one comment.

"Yeah…" He glanced at Tom. "You do not have anything to be remorseful about, I suppose, even though you practically…"

"Are you quite sure you are alright?" Riddle appeared like he had not fathomed the swift change in atmosphere. "You look a little under the weather."

Harry felt burning anger sweeping through him; his attempts are reining it were in vain.

Riddle, the perfect Riddle, could be so oblivious at times, for all his genius. He certainly had a knack for brandishing hurtful words about and then continuing as though nothing had happened.

"Yep, I'm sure," he snapped, quite cuttingly. "No thanks to you, though."

He could feel the intensity of Riddle's scrutiny boring into the side of his face, with a nearly curious air.

"Have I said something of an offensive nature to you?"

"What do _you_ think?" he muttered bitterly. "Cursing me with the Cruciatus, which is only supposed to work if you really _mean it_, and following up your masterpiece with a rejection to grace me with something as simple as an apology… yeah, you've said nothing offensive."

Tom's features darkened. "So _that's_ what this is all about. A tantrum because you have not received the recognition of an admission of guilt. Very mature, Potter. What difference does it make anyway?"

Harry glared ferociously at the Slytherin Heir. "It makes all the difference in the world."

Casting a glance at Harry's bandaged body, Tom had the courtesy to soften his tone. "What done has been done, Harry, you know. A request for forgiveness from me will not change anything; it will not reduce your suffering."

"Get out," he said coldly. "You should go, Tom, I'm sure you have better things with your time than listening to me rant."

"Stop, you know I don't –"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Harry, be reasonable, please."

"Curse you, Tom! Damn you to hell!" Harry shouted, unable to restrain his explosion. Even the shocked expression surfacing on Riddle's face could not calm him. "Only you are right, you can never be wrong, not ever! Making something as human as a mistake is just never going to happen to you, to the mighty Tom Riddle!"

"If you are finished with your fit, I can tell the rest of the story," Tom said.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but Tom resumed before he managed to get a single word in.

"Me, falling victim to a love potion, was _not_ a mistake. I planned everything, almost every detail, impeccably. You weren't tortured for nothing, Harry; I would not let you agonise meaninglessly. If everything works, you will soon be one enemy down because Daphne Greengrass will be dead."

The words had not hit home, and Harry maintained his glare unrelentingly; the confession striking upon deaf ears.

"Surely you did not think I would be as stupid as to fall for something as low a trick as Amortentia? I smelt it in my tea, Harry. I never drank it!"

This time, Harry's mouth dropped open in an _O_, and his eyes widened almost comically, staring at Tom as if he had seen a ghost. "What?" he rasped out.

"It was rather obvious that Daphne planted it," Tom continued. "I was curious to hear what she had intended, and fooling you along the way was half the fun. When she wanted me to torture you with the most gruesome methods, I knew she was too big a threat to your safety to let live."

Harry made a choking sound at the back of his throat, and he fell silent.

"If I helped her to a certain extent, not enough to permanently injure you but enough to invite the Dark Lord's wrath, she may become history."

The silence, the utter silence, the type when even the walls were drawing back a breath in unison, was startling.

"I know for a fact that the Dark Lord would not risk his Horcrux being killed by a ruthless apprentice. Daphne will die, and it will benefit you in the long run. I had the entire situation under control."

_"Under control?!"_

Tom stared encouragingly at Harry. "It is a shame I had to wound you, but in order for this to work, Voldemort had to fear for your life. Therefore, you had to be in considerable pain."

Harry could not believe the truth behind the events… he simply could not. Tom, Tom had _always_ been in his right mind.

How many times had he begged the Slytherin Heir to stop only for the man to cruelly order him to scream louder? All of it had been… what? An act to get Daphne executed?

"Daphne and Voldemort could not be allowed to know – you know the Dark Lord does not appreciate pretence – otherwise it can severely damage the chances of Daphne's may spare her, if only to spite me."

"What is your point?"

"Since the effects of Amortentia were unbeatable without an antidote, I could not restrain Daphne without blowing my cover."

"Oh." Harry did not know what to think. "Basically you _consciously_ flung several Cruciatus Curses at me? Without asking my permission? Do you know how much it _hurt?_" Rage was boiling over once again.

Tom looked incredulous. "Small sacrifices had to be made. As for asking your permission, I think that after years of protecting you from harm, I daresay I am the best judge of what is good for you. By cutting down Daphne, I am preventing any future problems."

Harry glowered furiously at him and cussed under his breath. "_You_ are the best judge of what is good for me?" He laughed humourlessly, acidly. "I am fully capable of taking care of myself. I'll _thank_ you to look after your _own_ business."

"This is ridiculous."

"What?" Harry growled. "You don't think I have any right to criticise you when you _brutalised_ me? I _trusted_ you, for God's sake! I'm starting to think Voldemort is right."

"Tell me, how on earth have I betrayed your trust?" Tom whirled from the bed, launching himself upwards in a flurry of mad robes.

"Do you think I _liked_ hearing you scream? Because, Harry, I assure you, it was _not_ music to my ears. However, I focused solely on the task at hand: getting Daphne killed."

"You expect me to forgive you for this?"

"No, there is _nothing_ to forgive," Tom said dangerously. "If it was not for my interception, Daphne would have broken your arms. Besides, the physical pain is over; you no longer suffer. It is all over."

"What about lasting emotional damage?"

"_Emotional_ damage? That's pathetic."

"Oh, so now _I'm_ weak?" Harry snarled. "Just because you are some stupid psychopath who severely lacks empathy does not mean everybody is!" His blood was pounding through his veins and he averted his gaze for a second, afraid he would do something he'd regret.

"Look, Harry…" Tom Riddle raised both hands in emphasis. "I have your best interests at heart."

"_Very_ believable."

"Indeed it is."

"Do you have any idea how bloody _humiliating_ that was? Daphne practically saw me writhing like a new-born kitten on the ground!"

"The Cruciatus Curse has brought better men than you down on their knees; there is no shame in reacting to a well-placed spell." Tom paced the room. "Humiliating? _You_ are the one to talk about humiliating! The Dark Lord feels humiliated _for_ _me_ when he sees us together."

Harry seized a pillow from behind him, all pain forgotten, and hurled it at Tom. "So you find our _friendship_ humiliating? You find _me_ humiliating? I see."

"Will you calm yourself –?"

"Get out!"

Much to his surprise, Tom gave him one last hard stare, spun on his heels, and stormed angrily from the room faster than he could blink.

Harry leaned back, and closed his eyes tiredly.

_God, someone wake him from this nightmare now…_

* * *

**A/N: If you like, go back a chapter and search for the clues. It might make this a bit clearer. I know some of you are not liking this twist, but please try and go along with me. I try to please as many people as I can but I cannot please everybody.**


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